•I 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNI 


Accessions  No. 


CA/ss  No.  .!&£& 

L913 


THE  OLIVE  AND   THE    PINE 


THE  OLIVE  AND  THE  PINE 


BY 
MARTHA    PERRY    LOWE 

AUTHOR  OF  "  I.OVE    IN    SPAIN,"  "  CHIEF   JOSEPH,"  "  BF.SSIE    GKHY,"  ETC. 


"  Two  lands  before  them  passed 
In  strange  and  faire  contrast  " 


croitb 


TJFIVBRSIT7 


BOSTON 

D.     LOTHROP     COMPANY 

'893 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1893,  by 
MARTHA   PERRY   LOWE 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of 

Massachusetts 


PS  22  9? 

L 


, 
'M/f/V 


TO   CHARLES   LOWE 

THIS      BOOK      IS      INSCRIBED 


C  O  N  T  E  N  T  S  . 


PART  I.— SPAIN. 

Page 

To  THE  OLD  CASTILIAN  KNIGHT 3 

JOURNEY  IN  A  SPANISH  DILIGENCE 5 

A  SONG  OF  THE  SUN 

THE  ESCOUIAL 

THE  VIUGIN  OF  MUKILLO 

THE  Two  PICTURES 14 

THE  MOORISH  WELL 19 

CAROLINA  CORONADO '21 

BOABDIL '23 

WHAT  THE  ANDALUSIAN  GUITAR  SAYS '27 

THE  BULL-FIGHT 30 

MALAGA,  —  THE  REST 35 

HUSBAND  AND  WIFE 37 

JEALOUS 41 

FORSAKEN .43 

ALDONZA,  THE  YOUNG  SINGER 45 

MARCELA 53 

THE  MAJO 

RIBKRA'S  PICTUKE  OF  AN  OLD  MONK 


Vlii  CONTENTS. 


THE  ORGAN-PLAYER     .........    .    .......  61 

VALENCIA     ..............    .......  63 

THE  STEAM-ENGINE  IN  MAD  KID  .............  64 

To  WASHINGTON  IRVING      .         ............  66 


PART  II.  — NEW  ENGLAND. 

THE  ROAD  OVER  THE  HILLS 71 

THE  OCEAN  AT  BEVERLY 75 

THE  PICNIC 76 

THE  GERMAN  LESSON 84 

THE  FORESHADOWING  or  SPRING 89 

THE  BROKEN  HOME 91 

AN  AUTUMN  WALK 97 

QUILTING  AND  HUSKING 99 

THE  NORTHERN  LIGHTS 112 

WAITING  FOR  DEATH .114 

SIMPLICITY .118 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  AUTUMN .120 


SUNDAY 


124 


"  THE  SILENT  WAY  " 126 

THE  OLD  FARMHOUSE .128 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

THE  WEDDING  PRESENTS 135 

TIME,  THE  HEALER .149 

THE  ALPS 151 

SCHEFFER'S   PICTURE   OF   DANTE   AND    BEATRICE 153 

CHARLOTTE  BRONTE .155 

ToC .156 


prt  I. 
SPAIN 


Entrotiucttotu 


TO  THE   OLD   CASTILIAN  KNIGHT. 


HAUGHTY  soul  of  bravest  story, 
Gallant  heart  of  olden  glory, 
Loyal  breast  through  ages  hoary, 
Scorn  thou  not 
What  I  have  brought. 

If  I  rashly  dare  to  trace 

Scenes  thy  footsteps  once  did  grace, 

I,  an  alien  to  thy  race,  — 

Pardon  my 

Temerity. 

Touch  my  verses  with  the  fire 
Burning  in  thee,  so  my  lyre 
May  some  listening  hearts  inspire 

Unto  thy 

Old  chivalry. 


PART    I.  SPAIN. 

Scatter  down  upon  my  way 

The  aroma  fine  which  lay 

Round  tliee  from  the  earliest  day,  - 

Richest  bloom 

Of  rare  perfume  ! 

Thy  untaught  simplicity, 
Studying  the  fair  and  high 
With  no  braggart,  carping  eye, 

Ever  be ' 

Bequeathed  to  me !  — 

With  the  earnestness  that  brought 

Sanctity  to  every  thought, 

From  the  Heavenly  Lady  caught, 

Shedding  bright 

Celestial  light ;  — 

And  the  reverence  which  o'er 
All  the  world  did  kneel,  adore ; 
Worshipping  in  awe  before 

God  above, 

The  highest  love. 


JOURNEY    IN    A    SPANISH    DILIGKNCK. 


JOURNEY  IN  A  SPANISH  DILIGENCE. 


WE  journeyed  on,  o'er  hill  and  plain, 

From  night  till  morn,  from  morn  till  night : 

Ah!  who  could  sleep?     Before  the  sight 

She  brought  such  pictures,  —  strange  old  Spain  !. 

The  olives,  dark  and  lonely,  stand 

In  dots  of  verdure  o'er  the  land, 

And  watch  the  weary  sentinel 

Apace  the  melancholy  road, 

Who  scorns  yon  lowering  cave,  —  abode 

Most  dear  to  robbers'  heart,  they  tell : 

The  mule-bells  jingle  on  the  air, 

Impatient  of  the  stillness  there. 

The  master  sleeps,  —  or  else  is  singing 
A  song  which  sounds  like  love,  I  say, 
Did  it  not  grow  at  once  so  gay ; 
With  reckless  daring  now  'tis  ringing  ! 


PART    I.  SPAIN. 

And  all  night  long  he  singeth  so  ; 
I  strive  to  catch  the  note,  —  but  no : 
From  thoughtless  Spain  it  should  not  go  ; 
For  us  it  is  too  idly  sad, 
For  us  it  is  too  wildly  glad  ! 

The  morning  dawns  in  mountains  chill : 
I  ne'er  again  my  breath  shall  draw 
'Mid  such  deep  loneliness  and  awe,  — 
The  awe  of  ages  on  the  spot ! 
No  calm  that  doth  our  forests  fill, 
All  hushed  in  work  !  —  it  is  the  thought 
Of  what  has  been  that  makes  them  still ! 

The  stern  old  fortress  peereth  down 
For  ambushed  foe ;  she  hath  forgot 
How  well  she  did  her  work,  I  wot. 
There  is  no  Moor  to  see  her  frown ! 
But  old  age  peaceful  cannot  now 
Smooth  out  the  wrinkles  on  her  brow. 

The  mellow  sun  is  sinking  low : 

This  hour  the  good  earth  tenderer  seems. 

And  full  of  poesy  to  grow, 

While  we  are  softening  into  dreams. 


JOURNEY    IN   A   SPANISH    DILIGENCE. 

We  ride  up  to  a  walled  town 
Upon  a  rock,  and  pass  through  gates 
All  hoar  with  time ;  yet  in  them  waits 
No  seer  in  wisdom's  grave  renown : 
The  young  sit  all  day  round  the  walk 
Of  orange-trees,  and  idly  talk. 

"We  enter  fair  Sevilla,  dimmed 

In  blinding  showers ;  yet,  on  the  morrow, 

We  know  the  rain  but  mocked  at  sorrow : 

We  know  she  sits,  with  flowers  betrimmed. 

Amid  her  light  guitars  for  aye, 

In  gay  and  glad  festivity. 


PART    I.  SPAIN. 


A   SONG  OF  THE   SUN. 

SEVILLE. 


THE  Sun,  how  it  glowetb,  all  day  gloweth  down, 
On  the  gray  of  thy  turrets,  O  wonderful  town ! 
Sweet  Seville,  thou'rt  riper  and  fairer  to  see, 
As  the  ages  do  touch  but  to  beautify  thee : 
Sitting  there  in  the  sunlight,  for  centuries  dreaming, 
How  mellow  thou  growest,  as  on  thee  'tis  beaming ! 

It  shines  in  the  face  of  the  beggar  who  lies 
Upturning  his  brow  to  the  bountiful  skies ; 
And  darker  and  darker  and  richer  it  grows, 
His  locks  clinging  round  it  in  matted  repose : 
What  cares  he,  as  by  him  the  grander  world  goes  ? 
Far  harder  than  he  they  are  working,  he  knows. 

Ah,  no !  'tis  not  working  that  maketh  him  brown  : 

The  Sun !  'tis  the  Sun  looking  steadfastly  down ! 

It  feedeth  the  Spaniard  in  soul  and  in  sense ; 

Yes,  he'll  not  be  drudging  to  lay  up  his  pence. 

Let  him  lie  in  his  ragged  magnificence, 

Till,  spell-bound,  the  artist  shall  bring  him  from  thence  ! 


A    SONG    OF    THE    SUN. 

The  Sun  looketh  in  on  the  dark  myrtle-bowers 

Of  courts  that  are  sweet  with  the  white  orange-flowers, 

And  golden  doth  lie  on  her  deep-tinted  cheek 

Who  there  at  the  bars  with  her  lover  doth  speak. 

The  bars  shut  him  from  her ;  but  he  can  look  through 

As  well  as  the  Sun,  and  can  touch  her  cheek  too. 

Her  soft  eyes  are  glowing  as  evening  in  June ; 
And  his  —  they  are  burning  like  tropical  noon  : 
Tis  the  Sun  that  is  setting  on  fire  the  heart ! 
What  cooleth  where  enters  his  swift-glowing  dart? 
Go,  rein  in  his  coursers,  if  here  thou  wouldst  school 
The  Child  of  the  South  by  the  Northerner's  rule ! 

Now  see  the  rays  dance  on  the  gay  Guadalquivir ! 
Along  the  far  plain  she's  a  lonely,  sad  river, 
Where  shadows  of  memory  brood  over  her  waves, 
As,  weary,  the  desolate  Vega  she  laves ; 
But  here,  in  dear  Seville,  she  learns  to  forget, 
And  smileth  in  all  her  young  radiance  yet ! 

For  all  the  long  day,  amid  jasmine  and  roses 
And  gay  promenades,  she  in  beauty  reposes ; 
While  fast  crowds  are  floating  as  butterflies  bright, 
Or  watching  the  play  of  the  ripples  and  light, 
And  orange-groves  follow  her  far  on  her  way 
Adowri  to  the  sea  and  to  fair  Cadiz  Bay. 


10 


PART    I.  SPAIN. 


Then  streams  it  aslant  the  Giralda,  the  tower 
Of  the  sorrowful  Moor,  at  the  soft  vesper  hour. 
Look !  fairest  old  traceries  start  to  the  light: 
The  loiterer  standeth  amazed  at  the  sight ! 
So  Poesy's  glance  ever  bringeth  out  plain 
The  Past's  finer  etchings  to  daylight  again. 

Behold,  how  it  dareth  to  enter  the  vast, 

The  sacred,  the  holy  Cathedral  at  last ! 

All  mellow,  subdued  in  the  window,  it  lies 

Insnared  in  the  maze  of  those  wonderful  dyes, 

Subliming  the  colors  until  they  arise, 

And  float  like  the  souls  whom  the  Lord  glorifies. 

The  Sun,  how  it  gloweth,  all  day  gloweth  down, 
On  the  gray  of  thy  turrets,  O  wonderful  town ! 
Sweet  Seville,  thou'rt  riper  and  fairer  to  see, 
As  the  ages  do  touch  but  to  beautify  thee : 
Sitting  there  in  the  sunlight,  for  centuries  dreaming, 
How  mellow  thou  growest,  as  on  thee  'tis  beaming  ! 


THE    ESCORIAL.  11 


THE    ESCORIAL. 


I  LOVE  the  solemn  awe  that  broods  around 
This  spot,  so  wondrous  in  its  solitude : 
'Tis  grave,  e'en  as  the  ancient  faith  that  walked 
In  high  austerity  throughout  the  land ; 
'Tis  still,  as  if  the  many  hundred  monks 
Who  lie  beneath  my  feet  had  e'en  but  now 
To  Mary  said  their  prayer,  and,  one  by  one, 
Crept  down  below  unto  their  rest  in  death ; 
'Tis  cold  and  calm  as  was  the  iron  front 
Of  him,  its  king,  who  built  him  here  a  house, 
Where,  with  his  bosom-friend  Remorse,  he  came, 
And,  in  her  dread  companionship,  grew  pale 
With  looking  on  the  blackness  of  his  soul, 
And  pondering  how  best  to  meet  his  God ; 
'Tis  awful,  with  its  royal  dead,  who  lie 
In  chill  magnificence. 

The  mountains  gray, 

Wherein  the  Escorial  sits,  breathe  o'er  her  like 
Ascetics  rude.     The  very  hedgerows  dare 


12 


PART    I.  SPAIN. 


Not  seek  in  graceful  longing  the  glad  sky ; 
But  their  young  shoots  are  disciplined  unto 
A  goodly  sanctity. 

But,  ah !  behold 

The  pages  of  the  ancient  manuscripts, 
With  History's  morning  twilight,  gold  and  red  ! 
We  of  the  more  advancing  day  have  paled 
The  horizon  of  our  books,  as  of  our  lives ; 
And  in  the  broad,  clear  beams  of  Learning's  sun, 
We  know  not  the  old  age's  intensity. 
The  streaks  of  opening  glory  then  burned  in 
A  deeper  coloring  to  all  her  thought. 

Poor  Philip !  I  can  see  thee  now,  within 
The  narrow  room  near  by  the  chapel,  where, 
'Midst  all  thy  mortal  pains,  thy  gaze  was  fixed 
Upon  the  altar,  while  thy  dying  "bed 
Was  quivering  in  the  mighty  organ's  roll. 
Thy  worship's  pageantry  moved  daily  o'er 
Thy  glazing  eye :  like  him  who  walks  the  night 
In  dreams,  thou  seeing  wert,  and  seeing  not. 
Ah !  better  he,  the  pure  in  heart,  who  makes 
His  bed  beneath  the  open  dome  of  stars, 
And  seeth  God,  the  great  High  Priest,  perform 
The  ritual  of  the  world,  and,  on  the  voice 
Of  answering  Nature,  passeth  unto  heaven  ! 


THE   VIRGIN    OF    MURILLO.  13 


THE    VIRGIN    OF    MURILLO. 


BEHOLD  her  floating  radiant  on  the  air ! 
The  laughing  cherubs  in  her  lustre  play, 
Fanned  by  the  waving  of  her  golden  hair, 
And  mantle  blue,  the  robe  of  purity. 
She  wears  a  look  of  holy,  sweet  surprise, 
Remembering  all  the  words  the  angel  said ; 
She  thinketh  of  her  Son  with  smiling  eyes, 
Nor  dreameth  of  that  coming  hour  so  dread !  - 
So  fair,  celestial  in  her  innocence  ! 
And  yet  she  s.tood  on  earth  beneath  the  Tree, 
And  saw  Him  lifted  up,  until  from  thence 
Dear  John,  beloved,  bore  her  reverently, 
Calming  her  tears  away  upon  his  breast, 
And  bade  her  in  his  home  for  ever  rest. 


14  PART   I.  SPAIN. 


THE  TWO  PICTURES. 


THE   WESTERN   HUNTER,   AND   THE    SPANISH   MONK. 


I. 

THERE  are  two  pictures  on  my  wall ; 
And,  when  on  them  my  eye  doth  fall, 
I  marvel  that  they  side  by  side 
Should  be,  and  yet  apart  so  wide. 

One  imageth  that  wild  young  land 
Where  roams  the  grim  beast  with  his  band, 
And  shakes  the  forests  with  his  cry 
Of  most  exultant  liberty  ;  — 

The  endless  waste  of  waters,  where 
The  lone  bird  screecheth  through  the  air 
In  Nature's  ear,  who  sits  all  day, 
And  lets  her  children  have  their  way. 

For  she,  amidst  the  din,  can  hear 

The  distant,  tramping  feet  draw  near 

Of  generations  who  will  crush 

Them  down,  and  all  their  gambols  hush ;  — 


THE    TWO    PICTURES.  15 

E'en  as  the  mother  calm  doth  smile 
On  her  wild  brood,  and  muse  the  while 
How  sure  thick-coming  cares  will  quell 
Ere  long  the  o'er-leaping  heart  too  well. 

A  rider  bursts  upon  this  rude, 
Untutored  realm  of  solitude, 
And  bids  his  steed  with  boldness  break 
His  way  through  yonder  treacherous  lake. 

It  is  the  fierce-eyed  Western  rover, 
With  gun  and  horse  for  friend  and  lover : 
Ah !  little  dreams  he  his  last  bed 
Is  making  'neath  that  horse's  tread ! 

His  horse  looks  in  the  quiet  stream ; 
He 's  looking  in  red  eyes  that  gleam  : 
His  horse  feels  but  the  cooling  rushes  ; 
He  feels  the  hot  blood  come  in  flushes. 

Defiant,  turning,  —  look  at  him  !  — 
He  sits,  and  glares  upon  a  grim 
And  hungry  beast.     He  stills  his  breath ; 
Is  all  alive  to  keep  off  death ! 


16  PART    I.  SPAIN. 

Methinks  I  see  the  monster  spring 
Upon  him  as  he  sits  a  king, 
And  pull  him  from  his  breathing  throne, 
Where,  Centaur-like,  he  moved  alone, — 

And  proud  surveyed  the  wilderness,  — 
Pull  him  beneath  the  deep  abyss 
Of  waters;  grappling,  hide  him  there, 
'Mid  weeds  and  tangles  in  his  hair ! 


II. 

I  leave  the  panting  Present  now 
With  noonday  sweat  upon  her  brow : 
The  Past  doth  steal,  with  hazy  eye, 
Like  twilight,  on  my  company. 

In  ancient  Spain,  where  oft  amid 
The  tombs  sweet-faced  Religion  hid,  — 
Though  radiant  angels  found  her  out 
E'en  there,  and  came  and  hung  about,  — 

Yon  cell  beholds  a  monk  in  prayer, 
While  heavenly  eyes  are  watching  there : 
His  locks  as  streaks  of  light  are  flowing, 
A  silver  halo  o'er  him  throwing,  — 


THE    TWO    PICTURES.  17 

Caught  from  the  blest,  whose  faces  shine, 
So  saith  the  Lord,  with  looks  divine ; 
And  light  their  Father's  kingdom  bright, 
E'en  as  the  sun,  and  know  not  night. 

Ah !  he  is  not  afraid  of  Death ! 

"  Come  near,  that  I  may  feel,"  he  saith, 

"  How  gaunt  thou  art."     Yes,  let  Death  shake 

His  loosening  bones :  he  will  not  quake. 

He  is  with  him  so  well  acquaint, 

That  when,  at  length,  the  gentle  saint 

Feels  that  cold  hand  upon  his  brow, 

And  hears  him  whisper,  "  Thy  turn  now ! "  — 

"  Friend,  I've  been  looking  out  for  thee," 
He'll  say ;  then  take  up  quietly 
His  little  cross,  and  rise  and  go 
With  him  so  meekly,  that  I  know, 

Grim  Death  will  stagger  back,  and  store 
On  him  amazed :  "  Ah  !  few  do  dare 
To  call  me  friend :  thou  robbest  me, 
Old  man !  of  all  my  cruelty." 
2 


18  PART    I.  SPAIN. 

Now  in  those  bony  arms  he'll  rest 
As  sweet  as  on  his  mother's  breast ; 
While  lights  play  beauteous  o'er  his  eyes, 
Flickering  from  opening  Paradise. 


THE    MOORISH    WELL.  19 


THE    MOORISH    WELL. 


How  cold,  how  crisping,  and  how  sweet ! 

The  traveller  climbs,  with  languid  feet, 

The  fair  Alhambra  crowned  hill : 

The  eager  water,  calm  and  still, 

In  crystal  quiet  deftly  lies 

To  charm  him  with  a  quick  surprise. 

He  comes,  —  he  grasps  in  ardent  haste 
The  draught,  and  long  and  deep  doth  taste 
It  startles  him  with  joyance  clear, 
Like  silver  bells  a-sounding  near ; 
So  keen,  so  laughter-like,  so  springing, 
Through  all  his  being  it  is  ringing. 

It  cutteth  swift  through  every  vein, 
Like  sudden  castanets  again, 
Which  in  and  out  do  run  and  patter 
About  the  ear  with  gentle  clatter : 
His  soul  is  dancing  down  and  up 
Unto  the  music  of  the  cup. 


.<          0?  THR  ^, 

|tJIU7BRSIT7} 


20  PART    I.  SPAIN. 

But  list !  a  showery  vision  light 
Sparkles  in  grace  before  his  sight : 
A  dark-browed  Moorish  creature  there  ! 
The  fountains  tangle  in  her  hair ; 
From  out  her  eyes  in  jets  they  ray, 
In  curves  around  her  mouth  they  play. 

"  0  Christian  !  know  that  thou  dost  sip 
From  out  the  well  that  cooled  my  lip, 
When,  in  a  raging,  burning  thirst, 
A  faithless  Spanish  knight  I  cursed ;  — 
Ay,  cursed  the  Holy  Virgin  even, 
By  whom  he  swore  to  me  and  Heaven ! 

"  He  of  the  Cross,  in  stern  amaze, 
Came  down  before  my  trembling  gaze : 
*  Blasphemest  thou  the  Mother,  —  she 
Who  stood  by  me  on  Calvary  ? 
For  this  shalt  thou  insnared  lie 
Below  to  all  eternity ! '  " 

She  sank  beneath  the  earth  in  spray, 
Doomed  to  linger  there  for  aye, 
And  pour  her  life  out  to  the  fount : 
The  stranger  feels  his  blood  remount, 
And  well  up  high  with  drops  that  start 
Fresh  from  a  Moslem  maiden's  heart ! 


CAROLINA    CORONADO.  21 


CAROLINA  CORONADO, 


POETESS  OF   SPAIN. 


THE  walls  of  Badajoz  looked  down 
Upon  a  gifted  maid,  who  rose 
Within  that  old,  beleaguered  town, 
And  startled  Spain  from  her  repose. 

Her  eyes  were  beaming  with  the  fire 
Of  poet  youth  beneath  her  dark 
And  shining  locks.     She  struck  her  lyre ; 
And,  lo !  the  land  of  Spain  did  hark. 

She  calmed  her  deep,  impassioned  breast 
With  love  to  all  the  solitudes, 
And  hid  beside  the  wild-bird's  nest 
Her  verses  in  the  rocks  and  woods. 

She  hung  enraptured  on  the  sweet 
Young  meadow  rose,  and  lingered  near 
The  turtle-dove,  who  did  repeat 
"  Love,  love,"  for  ever  in  her  ear. 


22  PART    I.  SPAIN. 

Unto  the  Stars  she  told  her  tale, 
Weeping  her  tears  melodiously 
At  evening  with  the  Nightingale, 
Or  with  the  Palm  communing  high. 

Her  genius  moved  not  straight  within 
The  pruned  walks  of  classic  time, 
But  ran  abroad,  and  revelled  in 
New  laws  that  rose  from  out  her  rhyme. 

She  poured  a  tide  of  passion  through 
The  sordid  flats  of  Life's  dull  sea ; 
And,  last,  she  dared  to  speak  unto 
Her  nation  that  word  —  Liberty  ! 

Yes,  she  —  the  fearless  girl  —  did  make 
The  slavish  priesthood  tremble  at 
The  burning  words  of  truth  she  spake, 
And  poets  at  her  footstool  sat. 

At  length  the  laurel  wreath  they  set 
Upon  her  in  the  royal  dome ; 
But  most  she  loves  the  coronet 
Of  wife  and  mother  in  her  home ! 


BOABD1L.  23 


B  0  A  B  D  I  L. 


THE    LAST   SIGH     OF    THE     MOOR."  * 


BEHOLD  him  bowed  upon  the  little  hill, 

That  sits  in  meekness  all  the  day,  forlorn, 

Beneath  the  proud  Alhambra's  fiery  eye, 

Who  speaketh  from  her  height  in  palest  scorn :  — 

"  Ay,  keep  him  fair-haired,  silken  hero,  made 
Of  pensive  moonbeams  and  the  whispering  breeze ! 
Ay,  keep  him  of  the  blue  eyes,  so  afraid 
To  guard  my  towers,  who  skulks  through  yonder  trees ! 

"  Receive  his  sighs  upon  your  nursing  breast,  — 
'Tis  softer  than  my  bosom,  sweeter  bed :  — 
He  loves  the  cooling  grass,  the  wooing  rest, 
More  than  the  flashing  fire  around  my  head. 


*  "  Last  Sigh  of  the  Moor,"  the  name  of  the  little  hill  where 
Boabdil  retired,  and  mourned  for  the  Alhambra. 


24  PART    I.  SPAIN. 

u  Ah  !  sing  a  song  of  love  to  make  him  sleep 
Among  your  coverts,  so  he  may  not  hear 
The  booming  thunder  —  bid  him  not  to  weep  —       * 
'Tis  sweeter  than  his  sighing  to  my  ear ! 

"  And  let  your  gentlest  airs  a  languid  haze 
Breathe  o'er  him,  that  he  may  not  see  the  smoke 
That  gathers  round  my  throat,  nor  mark  the  blaze 
That  flashes  on  my  face  as  lightning  stroke. 

"  Hark !  hear  I  not,  'mid  clanging  hosts  that  move, 
My  King,  who  bids  me,  as  some  lady's  lyre, 
A  fond  farewell  ?     Peace  !  peace  !  no  words  of  love, 
Boabdil,  since  thou  hast  no  deeds  of  fire ! " 


THE    KING. 

*'  O  thou  Alhambra,  beautiful  and  bright, 
Who  sat'st  serene  amid  the  stars  and  sun, 
Gazing  in  high  repose,  at  morn  and  night, 
O'er  all  the  world,  —  adieu,  thou  glorious  One ! 

"  O  mighty  arm,  that  held  in  glory  through 
The  rolling  years  the  heroes  safe  and  well ; 
And  breasted  back  the  flaming  darts  that  flew 
Anigh  their  lofty  hearts  invincible ;  — 


BOABDIL.  25 

"  And  swept  the  blackening,  deadly  hail  away, 
So  it  could  shatter  not  one  beauteous  form ; 
And  laughed,  in  exultation  proud  and  gay, 
To  see  their  locks  untouched  amid  the  storm !  — 

"  Thou  paradise,  exceeding  beautiful, 
Wherein  the  lovely  eyes  have  darkly  glanced 
Among  the  rapturous  fountains  sleeping  cool, 
That    sprang    to    hear    their   footsteps    light,   and 
danced !  — 

"  No  more  the  maids  shall  lie  within  thy  doors, 
Beneath  the  whiteness  of  thy  silvery  walls. 
While  their  black  tresses  sweep  along  the  floors 
'Mid  gold  and  blue  that  gleam  from  Afric's  halls ! 

"  I  will  not  stay  with  thee !  —  by  Allah,  no ! 
Since  I  an  arm  of  help  no  more  can  reach : 
I  will  not  see  thee  'midst  a  glaring  foe, 
Nor  hear  the  pompous  Christian's  rolling  speech ! 

"  Alhambra !  glory  of  my  soul !  my  love  ! 
Forget  not  him  who  turns  away  his  face : 
He,  for  thy  sake,  with  bleeding  heart  must  rove 
Without  a  land,  —  a  home,  —  a  resting-place ! 


26  PART    I.  SPAIN. 


'  Farewell !  and  guard  thou  sweet  Granada,  while, 
The  Crescent  sinking  pale  upon  her  crest, 
Thy  King  hath  ceased  in  dreams  of  thee  to  smile, 
And  laid  him  down  to  deep,  unbroken  rest ! " 


She  trembled  when  she  heard  his  words,  —  the  great, 
Fair  Lady,  —  watching  him  afar  with  sighs 
And  looks  of  love,  until  the  film  that  sate 
Around  her  forehead  dimmed  her  eagle  eyes. 

And  then  she  roused  herself  again  to  meet 
The  grappling  of  the  Spanish  men  :  they  prest 

On  her  for  Christ  and  victory,  sure  and  sweet : 

At  morn  the  eternal  Cross  was  on  her  breast ! 


WHAT  THE  ANDALUSIAN  GUITAR   SAYS. 


RING,  ring,  ring,  ring, 

Merry,  merry  Castanet ! 
Sing,  sing,  sing,  sing, 
Maiden,  with  your  eyes  of  jet ! 

Clickety  clack,  clickety  clack, 
Anda,  anda !  forward  and  back  ! 
Hear  me  humming,  humming,  humming! 
Hear  me  tumming,  tumming,  tumming ! 

Life  —  it  is  precious  and  fair  and  sweet ; 
Death  —  it  is  dark,  and  the  grave  ye  meet : 
Gather  the  moments  !  —  quick !  they  are  flying ; 
Gather  the  sunbeams !  —  see  !  they  are  dying. 

Fading,  fading,  fading  away,  — 
Tum-a-lum,  lum, 
Ting-a-ling,  ling : 
Faster,  faster,  faster,  I  play ; 
Whirling  and  twirling,  I'll  keep  ye  for  aye ! 


28  PART    I.  SPAIN. 

The  priest  —  let  him  stare  ; 

And  what  do  ye  care  ? 

I'll  buzz  in  his  ear 

A  tune  he  shall  hear, 

That  will  drown  all  his  aves  and  long  pater-noster, 
And  worry  the  old  monk  who  sits  in  his  cloister. 

But,  ah  !  in  my  song, 
If  you  list  to  it  long, 
There  are  strains  that  do  rove 
Through  the  shadows  of  love, 
With  sobbing  pulsation 
And  throbbing  vibration, 
That  wake  in  the  spirit  a  swift  perturbation. 

How  silver  the  moonlight,  how  gracious  the  breeze, 
Looking  into  the  lattice,  at  play  in  the  trees ! 
Ah !  love  is  the  radiant  charmer  of  night, 
That  whispers  untroubled  the  hopes  of  the  light, 
And  lingers  in  full-breathing  ecstasy  sweet, 
Or  parts  all  tumultuous,  never  to  meet ! 

0  sorrowful,  sorrowful  children  of  earth ! 

1  weep  for  ye  wildly,  —  weep  over  your  birth ; 

I  sigh  out  the  pains  that  are  rending  your  breast ; 
I  sing  of  the  hearts  that  have  entered  their  rest, 
Divided  no  more  in  the  land  of  the  blest ! 


THE   ANDALUSIAN    GUITAR.  29 


But  hush,  my  complain, 
Begone  with  this  strain  ! 

D 

Dear  Love !  he  is  weeping ; 

The  moonbeams  are  creeping, 

And  mournfulest  cadence  your  footsteps  are  keeping. 
Up,  up  !  the  Bolero  moves  tardily  on : 
Away  with  the  breaking  of  hearts  that  are  gone ! 
Fly  on  to  the  maze  of  advance  and  retreat, 
And  slide  through  the  air  with  your  rapturous  feet ! 


30 


PART    I.  SPAIN. 


THE    BULL-FIGHT. 


SEE  wave  on  wave  arise 
Of  swaying  human  heads, 
And  flashing,  coal-black  eyes, 
And  fluttering  fan  that  spreads 
Around  the  costly  scent 
From  glossy,  woven  braids, 
With  gold  and  crimson  blent 
Of  thousand  Spanish  maids ! 


The  Infanta  towereth  high, 
In  gleam  of  jewels  hid  ! 
Of  fair  nobility 
She  crowns  the  pyramid. 
The  princely  children  sit 
Around  with  chattering  glee : 
Their  cheeks  blench  not  a  whit 
At  thought  of  what's  to  be  ! 


THE    BULL-FIGHT.  31 

Bu.t,  hark !  the  trumpets  sound  ; 
The  Bull  is  in  the  ring ; 
The  goaders  stand  around,  — 
The  red,  red  cloth  they  fling : 
It  blazes  on  his  brain  ! 
He  runneth  wild  about, 
To  tear  the  thing  in  twain. 
Come,  Picador !  —  come  out ! 

The  Bull  drives  on  in  wrath, 
When,  lo  !  a  sudden  thrust 
Doth  send  a  crimson  path 
Streaking  along  the  dust ! 
Now  springs  he  on  the  foe : 
A  dainty  man  is  he, 
With  airy  dress,  and  show 
Of  gentler  revelry. 

His  horse  doth  shake  in  all 
His  sinews  mightily. 
Not  so  the  rider  small ; 
With  calm  and  glittering  eye, 
He  meets  that  plunging  head 
That  sets  itself  for  fight, 
With  shock  of  lance  so  dread, 
It  swoons  in  dizzy  sight. 


32  PART  I.  SPAIN. 

The  monster  sickens  fast ; 
He  will  riot  rouse  again  : 
Yes,  yes !  the  swoon  is  past ! 
He  rallies  from  his  pain ; 
Pie  gives  a  sidelong  sweep, 
And  whelms  the  horse  in  death, 
Lashing,  as  doth  the  deep 
The  drowning  sailor's  breath. 

The  Picador  is  down 
As  lightning  from  his  seat, 
And  leaves  the  Bull  alone, 
The  dead  horse  at  his  feet. 
Look,  look !  —  the  Matador ! 
He  kneels  before  the  court, 
And  humbly  craveth  for 
Their  grace  to  end  the  sport. 

The  royal  will  he  learns,  — 
A  gracious  boon  it  is ; 
And  gratefully  he  turns 
To  meet  the  Bull,  I  wis ! 
O  Matador !  thou  must 
Put  up  thy  sword  from  sight, 
Nor  give  a  single  thrust, 
Till  he  begins  the  fight. 


THE    BULL-FIGHT. 

What  stillness  noAV  doth  reign 
O'er  all  the  gazing  mass ! 
Before  his  crowded  brain 
A  thousand  ages  pass ! 
Eternally  he  lies 
Beneath  that  goring  head  ; 
Eternally  he  dies, 
With  sudden  tossings  dread  ! 

One  second  stands  he  still ; 
One  leap  the  great  Bull  makes 
Then  with  such  steady  will 
His  mortal  aim  he  takes, 
The  weapon  darteth  straight 
Betwixt  the  neck  and  breast, 
And  sitteth  there  in  state, 
In  sheath  of  purple  drest ! 

With  what  a  mighty  fall 
The  monster  sinks  to  earth ! 
"  Bravo  ! "  the  myriads  call, 
With  trumpets'  clanging  mirth. 
The  mules,  bespangled  bright, 
Trot  in  the  arena's  bound, 
And  drag  him  out  of  sight, 
Low  on  the  abased  ground. 


34  PART  I.  SPAIN. 

Go,  fair  Infanta,  dream 
Of  bloody  death  to-day! 
Thy  little  children  seem 
To  see  it  when  they  pray. 
And,  lo  !  the  nations  far 
Do  point,  with  warning  hand, 
To  yonder  stains  that  are 
Upon  thy  native  land ! 


MALAGA, 


MALAGA,  — THE    REST. 


MALAGA,  thou  noiseless  haven  sweet, 
Offering  thy  blessed,  kind  retreat 
Gently  to  the  weary,  languid  feet !  — 

How  thou  drawest  thy  blue  curtain  there. 
Shutting  from  the  wildered  eye  the  glare, 
And  the  cold  and  chilling  northern  air ! 

Golden  is  the  lamp  which  thou  dost  trim : 
Never  for  the  sufferer  is  it  dim ; 
Shedding  mellow,  pensive  light  on  him. 

Beautiful,  caressing,  airy  room  ! 
Castles  on  thy  sky  for  pictures  loom, 
Cheering  oft  his  spirit's  sickly  gloom ; 

Stretching  out,  as  flowing  tapestry, 
Yonder  rainbow-tinted,  velvet  sea, 
Folding  round  his  footsteps  coolingly  ! 


30  PART   I.  SPAIN. 

Hush !  how  still  the  air  around  his  rest, 
Smoothing  down  the  ripples  in  his  breast, 
Where  the  swift  disturber,  Pain,  hath  prest ! 

They  are  waiting  in  thy  beauteous  hall, 
When  the  flowers  open,  —  when  they  fall  ; 
Waiting  for  one  lovely  presence,  all. 

And  perchance  she  comes  with  dimpled  cheek, 
Roses  blushing  soft  when  she  doth  speak, 
Bounding  rapturous  to  the  sufferer  meek. 

Ah !  she  oftener  steals  anear  with  eye 

Pitiful ;  then  turns  her  silently, 

Shakes  her  head,  and  says  a  kind  good-by. 


HUSBAND    AND    WIFE. 


HUSBAND     AND     WIFE. 


FROM    ENGLAND    TO    MALAGA. 


THEY  sat  together  there  so  still,  — 
She,  calm  and  holy,  moist-eyed  dove  ; 
He,  keen  and  restless,  strong  of  will, 
Made  soft  and  tender  now  by  love : 
Her  being  strengthened  in  its  beams  ; 
His  melted  in  o'erflowing  streams. 


He  came  from  far,  with  heart  o'erleaping, 
The  miles  so  long,  the  hours  so  creeping, 
Oft  chafing  to  himself;  but  then 
A  thought  came  to  him  suddenly  : 
"  God  ! "  said  he,  "  should  I  never  see 
Her  large  eyes  look  in  mine  again, 
Nor  feel  her  fingers  laid  on  me, 
How  restful  were  this  weariness ! 
How  sweet  such  idle  pain  as  this ! ': 


38  PART    I.  SPAIN. 

But  she  did  smile  again  on  him. 
He  thought  upon  that  vision  grim 
That  broke  so  sharp  on  his  complaining, 
So  quick  his  fretful  tongue  restraining ; 
And  laughed  to  see  the  phantom  dim 
Before  her  lustrous  gaze  was  waning : 
"  'Twas  false ! "  he  cried  defiantly. 
But,  when  he  saw  her  earnest  eye, 
He  seized  the  folding  of  her  gown, 
And  kissed  it  while  the  tears  fell  down. 
She  did  not  ask  him  why  he  took 
Her  dress  so  wild,  —  what  made  him  look 
Again  so  humble  and  so  meek. 
She  knew :  then  wherefore  bid  him  speak  ? 
Watch  o'er  his  soul  she  oft  had  kept, 
And  laid  its  strangest  workings  by, 
Within  her  dear,  fond  memory ; 
But  most  the  changing  clouds  that  swept 
O'er  his  fair  heaven  of  love ;  and,  though 
They  marred  its  deep  sereneness  so, 
She  thought  they  did  but  touch  it  new 
With  varying  and  changing  hue, 
Leaving  a  deeper,  brighter  glow. 

Fond,  blessed  hearts,  that  stirred  by  turns, 
And  calmed  each  other's  bosoms  so, 


HUSBAND    AND    WIFE. 

Cooling  the  daily  fever-burns,  — 
Why  should  they  not  together  go 
Upon  the  lone  and  darksome  sea 
That  stretches  to  Eternity  ? 
His  tender,  fragile  bird  —  could  he 
Bear  see  her  spread  herself  alone  ? 
Her  wild  and  fevered  mate  —  would  she 
Leave  him  to  flutter  here,  and  moan  ? 
Could  she  contented  rest  her  wings 
Beneath  the  Tree  of  Life  on  high, 
When  on  his  prison-bar  he  springs, 
And  falls  down  chill,  despairingly  ? 

The  Sabbath  sun  was  sinking  low,  — 

And  she  arose,  and  touched  some  chords 

Of  music  sweet,  and  sang  these  words : 

"  The  Lord  my  Shepherd  is  ;  and,  though 

Along  the  vale  of  death  I  go, 

I  will  not  shrink,  nor  be  afraid 

To  meet  alone  the  dreadful  shade ! " 

Then  went  she  back  unto  him  there. 
His  head  upon  his  hands  did  rest : 
She  laid  them  softly  on  her  hair, 
As  if  she  came  to  be  caressed. 
And,  as  they  sat  so  still  and  dreamed, 
An  angel  took  the  harp,  it  seemed, 


40  PART    I.  SPAIN. 

And  sang:  "  Ah,  children,  who  abide 
On  mortal  earth,  and  love  and  fear ! 
Rest  ye  in  peace.     God  will  provide 
A  way  to  part  ye  gently  here. 
If  love's  dear  flame  doth  temper  right 
Your  souls,  and  burn  them  pure  and  white, 
So  kind  he'll  still  the  precious  breath, 
Ye'll  stand  in  wondering  peace  by  Death." 


JEALOUS.  41 


JEALOUS. 


DOLORES  !  dost  thou  love  him  ?  —  say ! 
No !  silence,  girl !  for  thee  I  hate ! 
I  saw  him  look  at  thee  to-day : 
Was  it  for  that  he  came  so  late  ? 

I  saw  thee  moving  on  the  walk, 
Nor  ever  stirred  thy  treacherous  eye : 
How  sweetly  he  with  me  did  talk ! 
Yet  felt  he  not  thy  passing-by  ? 

A  curse  be  on  thy  ankles  light, 

To  trip  thee  in  thy  fair  design  ! 

A  thousand  plagues  descend,  and  write 

Their  mark  upon  that  cheek  of  thine ! 

He  said  that  I  was  handsome  too ! 
He  said  my  eyes  were  wondrous  bright ; 
That  he  could  see  them  flashing  through 
The  very  deepest,  deepest  night ! 


42  PART    I.  SPAIN. 

They'll  flash  throughout  this  night  of  pain, 
I  tell  thee,  girl !  if  this  be  so  ; 
And  cut  thy  purposes  in  twain, 
And  burn  thee,  ere  from  life  I  go ! 

But  thou  art  soft  and  sweet  and  still ; 
Dost  lure  him  with  a  single  thought: 
He  will  obey  thy  secret  will, 
And  think  that  thou  commandest  not. 

Thy  pretty  hands  are  small  and  white : 
A  dagger  did  they  ever  hold  ? 
It  looketh  clear  and  smooth  and  bright ; 
But,  ah !  it  feels  so  very  cold  ! 

Thou  wilt  be  colder  yet  to  see 

How  warm  the  place  to  which  it  darts ; 

Paler,  to  look  at  him  and  ine, 

With  blood  avenging  both  our  hearts  ! 


FORSAKEN.  43 


FORSAKEN. 


DOLORES  !  dost  thou  weep  ? 

Speak  it  again  to  me ! 
Or  did  I  dream  in  sleep, 

That  what  I  said  to  thee 
Thou  sworest  to  forget  ? 

For  Jesu's  blessed  sake, 

Thou  wilt  the  promise  make ! 
Ah,  yes  !  thine  eyes  are  wet ! 

And  I  was  dreaming,  child ; 
So  hard  thou  wouldst  not  be ! 

The  vision  's  made  me  wild ; 
But  now  my  soul  is  free. 

Blood,  blood,  was  on  my  heart ! 
I  dreamed  !  —  but  God  was  kind  : 
He  held  me,  mad  and  blind  ! 

Speak,  speak,  ere  1  depart ! 
Is  it  not  true,  to-night 

Lorenzo's  pulses  beat  ?  — 
He  sees  the  blessed  light, 

The  grass  beneath  his  feet  ? 


44  PART    I.  SPAIN. 

I  loved  him,  —  ob,  'twas  bliss  ! 
No  more,  no  more,  of  this ! 
Away  !  —  I  enter  where 
^fo  passion  stains  the  air ! 
Love  !  cruel  was  thy  blow ; 

But  now  the  weight  of  sin 
From  off  my  soul  doth  go ; 

My  breast  is  calm  within. 
Sweet  Virgin  Mother !  hold 

The  hearts  of  lovers  here : 
When  they  are  growing  cold, 

Blest  Mother !  be  thou  near, 
And  still  the  raging  tide 
Of  burning  grief  and  pride  ! 
Jesu  !  my  pain,  my  sin, 

Take  all  upon  thy  cross. 

The  world  to  me  is  dross : 
Oh  !  let  me  enter  in, 

And  hide  beneath  thy  name 

My  poverty  and  shame  ! 
Sweet  Mother  !  —  Death  is  here ! 
Where  am  I  ?  —  Come  !  —  I  fear !  — 
Wipe  off  this  heavy  sweat,  and  stay, 
And  lead  me ;  for  'tis  dark  upon  the  way. 


ALDONZA.  45 


ALDOXZA,   THE  YOUNG   SINGER. 


SHE  sat  beneath  the  swaying  Palm 
That  whispered  Eastern  memories  ; 
While,  in  its  every  wave,  the  balm 
Of  old  perfumed  lays  did  rise. 
She  walked  at  early  morning  light, 
And  toned  the  glistening  lyre  of  youth ; 
Then  sat  serene  at  pensive  night, 
And  sang  her  songs  of  love  and  truth. 

She  saw  the  shepherd  moving  by, 
And  followed  him,  the  lambs  among : 
He  went  his  way  all  silently, 
Nor  wondered  at  her  prattling  tongue ; 
While  she  took  up  each  tender  thing, 
And  held  it  on  her  sheltering  arm, 
Or  fondest  praises  oft  would  sing  — 
And  press  it  to  her  bosom  warm  — 
Of  the  sweet  Lamb  of  Innocence, 
Within  the  church  not  far  from  thence, 


46  PART    I.  SPAIN. 

Who  sitteth  on  his  Mother's  knee 
To  light  the  altar  wondrously. 

The  little  red  moon,  hiding  by 
Nevada's  steep,  she  questioned  free 
And  fearlessly,  and  wondered  why 
'Twas  blushing  deep  and  angry  then ; 
And  why  so  calm  and  pale  again 
Through  all  the  night,  as  though  a  thought 
Of  restless  passion  touched  it  not. 

To  gather  flowers  she 'would  stop,  — 
The  scarlet  corn-flower  and  the  bright 
Fair  gold  and  purple  asters  drop 
"Within  her  lap,  and  amaranths  white. 
She  thought  them  robed  in  Paradise, 
And  deemed  they  left  with  their  wet  eyes 
The  radiant,  flowery  band  so  sweet, 
Who  round  the  Virgin's  skirts  do  cling, 
And  lay  themselves  around  her  feet, 
Again  with  freshening  looks  to  fall 
Beneath  her  step  ethereal. 

She  was  a  woman :  they  drew  nigh 
To  mark  her  deep,  poetic  eye, 
Her  beauty  and  benignity, 


ALDONZA.  47 

Where'er  her  gentle  footsteps  moved ; 

And,  ah  !  she  loved,  —  and,  ah !  she  loved,  — 

And  felt  the  sweet  and  bitter  fears 

That  come  with  love,  and  wept  the  tears 

And  heard  the  beating  never  cease 

Of  doubt  and  hope  and  pain  and  peace, 

And  last  despair,  —  the  bitterest ; 

For  he  was  false  unto  her  heart. 

He  struck  a  pain  unto  the  breast 

Which  he  had  sheltered  and  caressed ; 

He  sent  a  quick  and  sudden  smart 

Upon  a  gentle  soul's  delight,  — 

Then  fled  for  ever  from  her  sight ! 

She  was  a  woman,  —  ay,  indeed  ! 

And  she  was  ready,  at  his  need, 

To  lay  aside  her  fancy's  wings, 

Her  lovely,  fair  imaginings, 

Forget  her  songs,  and  slight  the  powers 

Which  used  to  fire  her  radiant  hours ; 

Accepting  but  the  joy  to  bring 

To  him  her  faithful  ministering, 

And  walk  the  simple  way  of  earth, 

Like  those  of  poor  and  lowliest  worth, 

And  love  and  serve,  —  the  highest  heaven 

And  humblest  to  a  woman  given  ! 


48  PART   I.  SPAIN. 

She  would  have  laid  beneath  his  feet 

Her  lyre,  with  but  a  lullaby 

For  ever  sounding  clear  and  sweet 

A  low,  deep  song  of  constancy !  — 

No  !  he  Avas  faithless,  that  alone 

The  world  might  have  her  for  its  own. 

Where  was  she  now,  bewildered  one  ? 

Gone  was  her  singing  heart,  and  gone 

Her  heart  of  love.     The  singing  she 

Had  cast  aside  for  loving :  he, 

The  lover,  had  despoiled  her  breast 

First  of  its  young,  poetic  rest, 

Then  of  its  sweet  disquietude ; 

And  left  a  weary,  empty  pain 

To  fill  her  spirit's  solitude. 

The  songs  —  they  would  not  come  again, 

Nor  drown  the  ceaseless,  ceaseless  ring 

Of  Love's  still  footsteps  echoing !  . 

She  roamed  in  pitiful  young  grief, 

Weeping  her  fond  and  vain  belief; 

Then  sat  in  stillest  apathy : 

And  so  the  changeless  days  went  by. 

But  once,  as  she  was  wandering  slow 
Betwixt  the  spirit's  storm  and  lull,  — 


ALDONZA. 

Her  heart  not  heaving  too  and  fro, 

Nor  lying  tranquilly  and  full,  — 

She  saw  the  Virgin,  heavenly  eyed, 

Gathering,  in  meadows  by  her  side,        , 

The  whitest  amaranths  that  e'er 

Grew  starry  on  this  brown  earth  drear ; 

And  with  the  white  her  golden  hair 

Gleamed  out  in  blinding  radiance  there. 

Aldonza  sank  upon  her  knee, 

And  bowed  her  head  ;  but  presently 

She  felt  cool  hands  upon  her  laid, 

Like  sacred  streams  from  Olivet, 

Laving  her  quiet  locks  of  jet : 

It  was  —  it  was  the  holy  Maid  ! 

She  knew  the  amaranth  as  it  wound 

About  her  temples,  and  around 

She  felt  a  glory,  —  ah !  so  nigh ! 

She  dared  not  look ;  but  silently 

She  prayed :  when  rose  she  from  the  ground, 

The  radiant  lady  was  not  there ; 

The  wreath  had  melted  in  her  hair. 

So  she  took  up  her  lyre  again, 
And  sang,  —  ah  !  how  divinely  then  !  — 
Until  they,  one  by  one,  broke  forth, 
Children  of  this  distracted  earth, 

4 


49 


PART    I.  SPAIN. 

From  thickening  press  of  cares  and  sighs, 
Or  smoother  bond  of  gayeties, 
To  hear  her  songs.     The  sweetest  sadness, 
The  purest  and  the  soberest  gladness, 
That  ever  came  from  lips  so  young, 
Fell  on  them  as  Aldonza  sung. 

For  Love  had  left  its  fulness  deep, 

Nor  sorrow's  presence  dark  could  sweep 

The  gracious  impress  of  that  tread 

Away  —  Love's  footstep  vanished ! 

Yet  him  she  named  not,  —  breathed  not  'mong 

Her  lays :  there  silent  was  her  tongue. 

He  was  beloved  of  her,  not  sung. 

But  all  the  springs,  so  pure  and  sweet, 

That  Love  unseals,  when  souls  do  meet 

It  sacredly,  bedewed  her  song. 

She  sang  of  truth,  nobility ; 

Of  loftiness  and  courage  strong ; 

Of  goodness  and  of  charity ; 

And  of  the  Cross,  —  consoler  deep,  — 

With  gentlest  tears  for  eyes  that  weep  ; 

And  of  our  sins  and  fears,  —  with  grace 

Of  hope  and  patience  on  her  face. 

The  young  men  bowed,  in  kindling  awe, 
Around  her ;  and  the  maids  would  draw 


ALDONZA. 


51 


Anear,  and  kiss  her  robe,  the  while : 
The  old  would  pass  her  by,  and  smile, 
And  say  the  saints  to  her  had  given 
Some  benediction  fresh  from  heaven. 
They  gathered  up,  when  by  her  side, 
Her  songs,  and  bore  them  far  and  wide 
Through  all  Espana's  restless  marts 
Of  throbbing  breasts  and  fiery  hearts. 
A  spirit  beautiful  she  grew : 
Her  land  was  all  aglow  with  her. 
In  modest  lustre,  into  view 
She  rose  a  heavenly  messenger,  — 
A  charmed  presence  rose,  —  to  meet 
Sweet  homage  laid  beneath  her  feet ; 
While  she,  the  Spanish  girl,  among 
Her  waving  palms,  unconscious  sung. 

At  length  they  crowned  her  with  the  wreath 
That  cools  the  poet's  brow  beneath ; 
That  overshadoweth,  deep  and  green, 
His  weary,  wandering  vision  keen  ; 
And  calms  the  fervor  of  his  eye 
With  dew  of  immortality. 

And  once  they  found  her,  at  the  light 
Of  early  summer  stars,  asleep 


PART    I.  SPAIN. 

In  peace  among  the  amaranths  white 

That  circled  starry  round  her  breast,  — 

A  silver  halo  o'er  her  rest,  — 

A  radiant  bed,  from  which  they  bore 

Her  soul  to  the  immortal  shore. 

The  Virgin  called,  —  and  she  was  taken 

She  was  asleep,  —  no  more  to  waken ! 


MAKCELA.  53 


M  A  R  C  E  L  A. 


Is  not  she 
Brightest  gem  you  e'er  did  see ; 

Very  best 
Jewel  on  Sevilla's  breast  ? 

Happy  sprite ! 
Now  she  cometh,  flashing  light, 

Airy  sparkling, 
Out  beneath  her  eyebrows  darkling. 

Rolleth  rich 
From  her  lips  the  Spanish  speech, 

Pouring  out 
Golden  streams  of  talk  about. 

Rising  gay, 
Airily  she  steps  away, 

Fashioning 
Jauntily  a  look  to  fling. 


54  PART    I.  SPAIN. 

"  Ah  !  you  know 
I  am  handsome ;  but  I  go  ! " 

Seems  to  you 
This  she  says  with  her  adieu. 

From  the  next 
Parts  she  just  as  tender?     Vext 

Are  you  by 
Her  benignant  coquetry  ? 

Better  spite 
Southern  zephyrs,  dancing  light ! 

They  and  she 
Only  live  to  flutter  free. 

Better  run 
From  the  royal  Southern  sun ! 

Is  not  he 
Ever  courting  ceaselessly  ? 

You  alone 
Are  the  very  dullest  drone : 

Where  doth  fly 
Your  new  foreign  suavity  ? 


How  it  clung  — 
Your  poor,  niggard  Saxon  tongue  — 


MARCEL  A.  -55 

In  its  place, 
"With  no  answering  back  of  grace ! 

Was  it  not 
Your  slow-moving,  Northern  thought 

Made  you  shy 
Of  her  Andalusian  eye  ? 

If  the  sea 
Of  creation  throweth  free 

Myriad  host, 
Like  you  not  what  sparkles  most  ? 

Look  again 
For  another,  nor  complain : 

Nature  keeps 
Gems  for  all,  among  her  deeps. 


56  PART    I.  SPAIN. 


THE  MAJO. 


PEASANT      DANDY. 


WHO  is  there  so  gay 
As  I  the  live-long  day  ? 
Who  can  dress  so  well  ? 
Sir,  I  pray  you,  tell. 
You  are  English,  friend  ? 
Come,  your  eye-glass  lend, 
Peering  up  so  high 
Into  Spanish  sky. 
Yola,  hola,  ha ! 

While  I'm  seeing  clear 
All  about  me  here, 
You  read  your  red  book 
Ere  you  dare  to  look : 
Come  along,  and  be 
Happy,  sir,  like  me ! 
Soft,  Amigo,  now 
I  will  show  you  how. 
Yola,  hola,  ha ! 


THE    MAJO. 

Crimson  mantle  bright 
Round  my  waistcoat  tight ; 
Buttons  jingling  neat 
Down  unto  my  feet,  — 
Shaking  silvery 
When  the  girls  go  by  ; 
While  they  stop  and  stare, 
All  in  love,  I  swear ! 
Tola,  hola,  ha ! 

Broidered  jacket  close^ 
Till  to  me  it  grows ; 
And  my  flat  Sombrero,  — 
Look  you,  Estrangero, 
When  you  would  be  free^ 
Up  to  any  joke, 
Own  it  then  to  me ! 
Don  my  hat  and  cloak !. 
Yola,  hola,  ha ! 

I  can  sing  a  song, 
Till  they  dance  along, 
Springing  from  afar 
Round  my  good  guitar. 
I  can  ride  a  fleet 
Pony  through  the  street ; 


57 


58  PART    I.  SPAIN. 

And  the  girls  will  sigh, 
Oh !  so  pensively ! 
Tola,  hola,  ha ! 

I  can  whisper  sly 
Through  the  lattice,  —  ay ! 
Rita  knoweth  best 
"Who  is  handsomest ! 
If  she  does  forget, 
There  are  black  eyes  yet : 
Other  maids  there  be 
Who  will  talk  with  me. 
Tola,  hola,  ha ! 

Kings  and  queens  and  priests, 
Grandees,  eat  your  feasts  ! 
Only  do  not  veto 
My  good  cigarito ! 
Sorry  English-man, 
Learning  all  you  can, 
May  your  worship  flee  us : 
Go  you  home  with  Dios ! 
Tola,  hola,  ha ! 


PICTURE    OF   AN    OLD    MONK.  59 


RIBERA'S   PICTURE   OF  AN   OLD   MONK. 


THOU  good  old  man,  what  errand  wouldst  thou  do, 
When  some  pale  artist,  with  high  ardor  full, 
Caught  thee  upon  his  canvas,  clear  and  true, 
In  all  thy  sweetness  so  ineffable  ?  4 

Ah !  thou  art  leaning  on  young  Charity ; 

She  guides  —  that  mild,  dear  saint — from  place  to  place 

So  long  hast  thou  been  in  her  company, 

That  thou  hast  caught  her  looks  upon  thy  face. 

She  cannot  smooth  the  pillow  round  thy  head, 
But  drops  her  tears  that  thou  wilt  lay  thy  hairs 
So  white  upon  a  lean  and  shrivelled  bed, 
Through  all  thy  ministry  and  weary  cares. 

Yet,  if  thou  bidst  her  ever  lead  the  way 
Through  sorrow,  self-denial  cannot  keep 
Its  watch  around  thy  dreams :  will  she  not  stay 
To  nurse  thee  then,  when  thou  art  gone  to  sleep ; 


60  PART   I.  —  SPAIN. 

And  sing  to  thee  of  Him,  the  Morning  Star, 
And  them  whose  road  through  tribulation  lay 
To  where  the  sounds  of  many  waters  are, 
And  He  is  wiping  all  the  tears  away ; 

Until  a  smile  goes  over  thee  most  sweet, 
And  runs  adown  thy  beard  in  silver  light ; 
As  if  thou,  in  thy  dreams,  hadst  sprung  to  meet 
The  Shepherd  with  thy  crown  of  glory  bright  ? 


THE    ORGAN-PLAYER.  61 


THE    ORGAN-PLAYER. 


HE  sat  there  at  the  great  old  Organ's  side 
In  mastery  complete,  and  slowly  laid 
His  fingers  on  the  silent  keys,  and  felt 
Them  o'er  with  groping  hands,  as  he  were  rapt 
Within  the  mazes  of  a  wandering  dream. 

But,  lo  !  the  waking !     Suddenly  uprose 

A  mighty  tempest  of  great  notes,  that  rolled 

Through  all  the  carved  space,  and  shook  it  from 

Its  boundless  marble  plains  away  unto 

The  spangled  grayness  of  its  lofty  dome ; 

And  trembled  in  the  arches,  fading  off 

Till  where  they  caught  the  rosy  bloom  that  streamed 

From  little  windows  set  with  precious  stones, 

That  looked  aslant  the  vastness,  cutting  through 

With  rainbow  mists  the  silent  clouds  of  dark. 

He  is  undaunted  'mid  the  whirlwind  of 

High  ecstasy  and  pain,  and  joy  and  grief, 


62  PART    I.  SPAIN. 

Which  he  hath  wakened  ;  for  his  soul  is  far 
Ascending  to  the  upper  dome  that  rests 
Its  beams  not  underneath  the  stars  and  sky, 
Like  this  fair  atom  in  the  eye  of  heaven. 
He  sees  his  bride,  who  walketh  in  the  light 
That  plays  immortal  in  her  hazel  eyes, 
And  broods  around  her  hair  at  rest  in  folds 
Of  placid  brownness  on  her  mellow  cheek. 

She  is  not  roving  'mong  the  glorified, 
Forgetful  of  the  restless  hearts  on  earth : 
She  watches  him  below  with  earnest  eyes, 
And  lays  her  ear  unto  the  floor  of  heaven 
To  catch  the  earthly  sounds  that  wander  up. 
She  follows  close  upon  the  Organ's  sweep 
With  voice  of  sweetness,  full  and  deep  and  low. 
He  hears  it,  —  'mid  the  cooling  shadow  of 
The  great  Cathedral,  hears  it  day  and  night,  — 
An  undertone  for  ever  sounding  clear 
Throughout  the  torrent  of  his  whelming  chords. 
Said  he  not,  'twas  no  mortal  hands  that  ruled 
The  harmonies  amid  that  solitude  ? 
And  so  he  sitteth  there  at  morn  and  even, 
And  fondly  dreameth  that  some  time  he  may 
Float  hence  upon  the  current  of  her  voice 
Unto  the  high  concerto  of  the  skies ! 


VALENCIA.  63 


VALENCIA. 


HOMEWARD      WITH 


DEAREST  companion,  Spain  has  passed  from  sight : 

Dost  thou  remember  that  luxurious  hour 

When  we,  entranced,  were  walking  'neath  the  power 

Of  evening,  music,  beauty,  love,  and  light ; 

The  pleasant  sadness  stealing  o'er  us  so, 

As  we  bethought  us  how  no  longer  we 

Amid  the  children  of  the  Sun  should  be, 

But  soon  shut  in  with  thickening  winter's  snow ; 

Not  where  the  pulses  lie  in  languid  ease, 

But  where  they  spring  to  meet  an  enemy,  — 

The  sovereign  Cold,  —  and  conquer  him,  or  die  ? 

Yet  that  far  land  we  chose  beyond  the  seas : 

One  lulled  us  with  a  dream  of  Lotus-trees ; 

The  other  woke  to  fair  Reality. 


64  PART    I.  SPAIN. 


THE   STEAM-ENGINE  IN  MADRID. 


STRANGE  monster,  who  hath  sent  thee  dashing  thus 
Profaningly  through  these  old  time-worn  shores  ? 
Thy  sailing  vapors  are  in  fast  pursuit, 
Though  some  do  tarry  oft  to  wreathe  themselves 
Amid  the  listless,  waving  Spanish  air ; 
Now  playful  hid,  now  creeping  out  again, 
Forgetful  of  their  rushing  fiery  work, 
Insnared  beneath  the  dreamy  Southern  sky. 

A  goodly  sight :  yet  wherefore  do  I  turn 

Mine  eyes  away  from  fair  Castilla's  plains, 

The  soil  of  silver  speech  and  gentle  blood ; 

From  yon  blue  mountains  rising  up  so  grave, 

Like  heart  of  ancient  Spanish  warrior ; 

And  that  fair  city  gleaming  at  their  feet, 

Seat  of  the  proudest  line  of  monarchy  ? 

It  is  because  it  minds  me  of  that  land, 

So  young  and  strong,  that  stretches  out  its  arms  — 


THE    STEAM-ENGINE.  65 

Its  interlacing  arras — o'er  all  the  earth; 

And  sweeter  than  its  greatness  is  the  thought, 

That  there  I  drew  the  breath  of  liberty : 

For  that  beloved,  far-off  land  is  home. 

0  my  America !  the  eyes  of  all 

Now  eager  wait  to  see  what  thou  canst  do : 

Be  faithful  in  thy  promise  to  the  world ! 


66  PART   I.  SPAIN. 


TO  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


IF  there  be  any  who  have  listened  to 
My  songs,  it  was  because  thou  wentst  before  ; 
Because  thy  master-hand  a  picture  drew 
Touched  with  the  very  look  Espana  wore. 

And  it  was  painted  with  a  brush  so  rare, 
So  smooth,  so  lightsome,  in  its  workmanship, 
That  men  stood  all  entranced  in  pleasure  there, 
And  wondered  why  the  hours  so  fast  did  skip. 

The  colors  were  in  richening  soberness 
Laid  on,  with  flitting  hues  of  light  and  shade, 
That  glow  for  ever,  like  the  Virgin's  dress, 
And  never  from  our  native  sky  shall  fade. 

America  stood  still  amid  her  chase 

Through  glaring  daylight  and  reality, 

And  dreamed  with  thee  among  that  twilight  race, 

Until  it  softened  down  her  fevered  eye. 


TO    WASHINGTON    IRVING.  67 

Perchance,  if  thou  shouldst  scan  these  songs  of  mine, 
They'd  wake  within  thee  pensive  memories, 
Or  mind  thee  how  that  legend-page  of  thine 
Is  gilded  with  thy  country's  fondest  praise. 

And  if  I  have  no  power  to  charm  her,  then 
Mayhap  she  will  turn  back,  when  I  do  sing, 
From  counting  o'er  her  gold,  to  look  again 
Upon  the  costlier  treasures  thou  didst  bring. 


Part  II. 
NEW     ENGLAND. 


THE  ROAD  OVER  THE  HILLS. 


I  LOVE,  each  lingering  summer  afternoon, 

When  stay  the  hours,  so  loath  to  part  with  June, 

Beside  my  window  with  a  book  to  sit, 

And  let  my  eye  from  off  its  pages  flit 

Away,  away,  to  yonder  distant  wood, 

Where  creeps  along,  in  lovely  solitude, 

The  village  road ;  now  here,  now  there,  so  white, 

Climbing  the  hill-top,  cheerily  and  bright, 

Amid  the  pine-trees  hushed  and  dark  as  night. 

At  length,  I  seem  in  fancy  there  to  be 

Among  the  young  flowers,  by  the  green  wayside, 

That  sit  and  look  so  sweet  and  earnestly 

Upon  the  traveller  who  doth  by  them  ride. 

How  still  it  is !     The  squirrel  quick  hath  run 

Across  the  track  unto  the  old  gray  wall 

Wreathed  o'er  with  thorny  vines,  while  brambles  tall 

Beset  it  round ;  and  'neath  the  summer  sun 


72 


PART    II.  NEW    ENGLAND. 


Floats  the  bronzed  butterfly,  until  —  behold!  — 
His  wings  are  turning  all  to  burnished  gold ! 
And  all  day,  in  the  wild  young  cricket's  ear, 
The  locust  proseth ;  but  she  will  not  hear. 
And,  hark !  a  sudden  stream  of  melody 
Comes  quivering  through  the  calm  and  silent  wood 
'Tis  the  sweet  thrush,  far  from  the  gazing  eye, 
Who  swelleth  now  her  little  gushing  throat 
Alone  for  her  dear  mate  and  tender  brood ; 
And,  ere  the  air  hath  caught  that  lovely  note, 
'Tis  gone,  and  all  the  woods  are  dark  and  lone  : 
And  long  they  wait  expectant  of  that  tone, 
Nor  know  they  where  she  sits,  until  again 
Her  music  runneth  quick  through  all  their  bowers, 
And  ceaseth.     Ah  !  no  nightingales  of  Spain, 
That  sing  at  night  around  Grenada's  towers, 
So  fondly  all  my  ear  and  heart  did  gain. 

I  dream  the  farmer  windeth  down  the  hill, 

And  wonder  if  this  loveliness  will  fill 

His  soul,  and  touch  him  now  one-half  so  sweet 

As  me,  adown  upon  the  nimble  feet 

Of  Fancy  borne,  or  on  the  airy  wings 

Of  swift  Imagination,  light  and  free ; 

Or  thinks  he  only  of  the  corn  that  springs 

And  groweth  now  so  bravely,  but  to  be 


THE    ROAD    OVER    THE    HILLS.  73 

Ere  long  within  his  petty  barn,  to  feed 
Him  and  his  little  ones  in  time  of  need  ? 
Ah !  he  is  poor,  and  they  must  eat  and  drink : 
He  has  no  time  on  such  as  ye  to  think, 
Sweet  images  of  God's  great  beauteousness  ! 
But  ye  forget  not  him,  nor  serve  him  less : 
Your  gentle  influence  will  enter  deep 
Beyond  the  sunburn,  and  the  callousness 
Of  pinching  wintry  frosts,  and  still  doth  keep 
Until  he  sitteth  with  his  little  girl, 
And  playeth  with  some  golden  dropping  curl, 
At  evening-hour,  beneath  the  cottage-door. 
Then  ye  do  make  him  wander  back  once  more 
To  his  forgotten  youth  and  days  gone  by ; 
And,  while  he  looks  upon  his  little  child, 
He'll  wipe  a  tear  perchance  from  out  his  eye. 
He  sees  again  his  mother's  blue  eyes  mild 
Smiling  her  boy  to  school  each  opening  day ; 
And  him,  the  generous  friend,  the  spirit  wild, 
Who  thought  no  more  of  death  than  he  at  play, 
And  yet  so  early  left  him  on  the  way,  — 
So  early  laid  him  down  to  earth,  and  slept ! 
And  then  he  thinks  how  he  is  longer  kept 
In  this  hard-working  world,  and  draweth  deep 
A  sigh  that  he  might  ere  long  fall  to  sleep. 


74  PART    II.  NEW   ENGLAND. 

Meanwhile  comes  forth  the  early  star  of  even, 
Or  else  the  golden  harvest  moon  doth  rise, 
The  festive  Autumn,  emblemed  in  the  heaven ! 
And  he  will  rest  his  soul,  and  lift  his  eyes 
Unto  the  Harvest  Home  in  yonder  skies ! 


THE    OCEAN    AT    BEVERLY.  75 


THE   OCEAN  AT  BEVERLY. 


I  AM  afraid  of  thee,  old  Ocean !  thou 

Dost  fill  me  with  unutterable  awe. 

The  gentle  maiden  calls  thee  beautiful ; 

The  youth  doth  love  thee,  —  thou  so  gallant,  brave  ; 

The  hero  stern,  because  thou  art  defiant, 

Unyielding  as  his  own  relentless  breast ; 

And,  last,  the  poet  loveth  thee,  who  art 

As  boundless  as  the  vague,  eternal  longings 

That  sweep  across  his  soul,  —  now  gently  swayed, 

Now  swelling  all  his  being  mightily ! 

But,  when  I  gaze  upon  thee,  I  do  think 

That  there  is  nought  but  thee  and  me  alone,  — 

No  life,  nor  joy  nor  hope ;  nor  ever  was, 

Nor  ever  will  be,  any  thing  save* thee, 

Stretching  for  ever  on  a  mighty  waste,  — 

One  great  eternity  of  desolation  ! 


76  PART    II. NEW   ENGLAND. 


THE    PICNIC. 


SWEET  golden  hours,  intense  with  early  joy  and  pain ! 
I  dream  of  them  in  smiles  that  come  and  go  in  tears,  — 
In  tears  of  tenderness  for  all  the  vanished  years, 
In  smiles  of  peace  that  asks  their  presence  not  again. 


The  west  wind  freshens  round  Monadnock  pale, 
And  shakes  away  his  vaporous  cap  of  night, 
Until  he  wakes  majestic  to  invite 
The  children  of  the  Ashuelot  Vale. 

There  is  a  wondrous  meaning  in  his  gaze : 
"  O  village  men  and  maidens !  hear  the  voice 
Of  Nature  when  her  spirit  doth  rejoice ! 
I  sit  alone,  and  list  to  all  she  says. 

"  I  hear  her  sweet,  low  song  at  early  light ; 
Or,  while  she  sleeps  at  noon  with  glowing  cheeks, 
I  mark  her  breathing,  till  she  murmuring  speaks, 
And  wakes,  at  hush  of  eve,  serene  and  bright. 


THE    PICNIC.  77 

"  Come !  come,  and  be  of  her  sweet  life  a  part : 
Away,  poor  Care  !  and  hide  thy  palsied  head ; 
And,  stately  Sorrow !  raise  thee  from  thy  dead, 
To  rest  upon  thy  living  mother's  heart." 

They  hear  his  speech,  —  the  mountain  grand ! 

It  runs  electric,  hand  to  hand ; 

And  in  and  out,  with  busy  feet, 

They  throng  the  peaceful  village  street. 

They  come  from  pleasant  doors  in  green 

Of  darksome  Maple  shut  from  day ; 

Or  where  the  slender  Elms  are  seen 

In  swinging  high-born  grace  at  play ; 

Or  out  of  cool  piazzas,  light 

With  sun,  and  dark  with  clinging  vine 

Of  grape,  whose  spraying  shadows  twine 

Along  the  steps  to  line  their  feet ; 

Or  down  the  slopes  of  grass  so  bright, 

And  glistening  with  the  dewdrops  sweet. 

The  little  lad,  with  eager  eye, 
Is  running,  high  his  basket  swinging, 
And  braves  the  children  going  by 
With  laugh  to  hear  the  dull  bell  ringing. 

The  blue-eyed  maid  who  slqwly  passed 
But  yesterday  with  book  o'erbent, 


78  PART    II. NEW    ENGLAND. 

Her  guileless  soul  too  soon  harassed 
By  learning's  dim  bewilderment ; 
Her  brow,  too  full  of  growing  thought, 
To-day  is  wearing  once  again 
The  roses  which  her  girlhood  brought, 
Where  late  the  fragile  lilies  stood 
Of  eager-dawning  womanhood. 

The  graceful  matron  of  the  home, 
Who  keeps  the  springs  of  its  dear  life 
In  order  'mid  the  jar  and  strife,  — 
Serene  and  watchful,  she  will  come. 

And  they,  the  grave-browed  men,  who've  seen 
•  The  generations  step  between 
Them  and  the  forms  they  loved  to  meet,  — 
'Tis  but  a  day  since,  —  in  the  street, 
Forget  the  sleeping  ones  to-day, 
And  join  the  smiling  band,  awake 
To  joy  and  hope  and  liberty, 
To  glory,  love,  and  life,  awake  ! 


The  fleecy  clouds  are  floating  in  the  blue, 
.The  green  of  summer  deepens  ever  new, 
Till  full  refreshment  sinks  upon  the  sated  view. 


THE   PICNIC.  79 

They  move  along  in  calm  repose  of  noon, 
And  drink  the  beauty  of  the  glowing  June : 
All  care  shall  lie  down  calmly  at  her  young  feet  soon. 

The  mountain,  wrapt  in  purple  noontide  haze, 
In  veiled  beauty  slumbers  on  their  gaze, 
And  floats  away  as  they  approach  in  soft  amaze. 

His  slumberous  calm  is  creeping  slowly  nigh 
To  fold  them  in  the  sweet  tranquillity 
Of  souls,  with  all  the  universe  in  tune  for  aye. 

Arouse !  the  Lake !  yon  sparkling  drop 

Down  in  the  mountain's  pebbly  cup, 

That  looks  from  fringed  eyelid  up, 

And,  smiling,  dreams  that  she  has  pressed 

The  strong  Monadnock  to  her  breast, 

Ethereal  in  her  liquid  rest ; 

Nor  vexes  her  sweet  thoughts  as  we, 

Who  oft  so  vainly  disagree 

Twixt  shade  and  substance  foolishly. 

—  So,  with  the  Lake  the  journey  done, 

They  fall  entranced,  one  by  one, 

Into  the  rocky  nooks  at  ease, 

Or  lean  against  the  o'erhanging  trees 

To  watch  this  jewel  in  the  sun. 


80 


PART    II. NEW    ENGLAND. 

The  shining  stone,  that  once  did  rest 
'Neath  her  caresses,  now  again 
Goes  skimming  back  upon  her  breast, 
From  lady's  hand  that  quivers  still, 
Or  firm  and  manly  arm  that  fain 
Would  not  outvie  the  maiden's  skill, 
Yet  aims  it  with  a  steadier  will. 

Ere  long  the  baskets  open  wide, 
And  all  survey  them  satisfied : 
The  napkins  glisten  on  the  grass 
In  lavish  generosity, 
Piled  up  with  bounties  rich  that  pass 
Around  by  maidens  trippingly  : 
Nor  she  of  most  ethereal  mind, 
Nor  he  by  city  thin  refined, 
Of  being  exquisite  and  rare, 
Could  here  withstand  the  buxom  air, 
Or  stay  the  human  needs  that  in 
Untrammelled  spirits  joy  within 
The  freedom  of  simplicity. 

They  help  the  tired  children  first, 
Their  little  tongues  are  so  athirst ; 
For  here  there  is  no  stately  rule : 
Dame  Nature  keeps  to-day  the  school. 


THE    PICNIC. 


81 


Will  she  not  shock  the  old  regime 
That  kept  the  elders  in  their  seat, 
While  children's  waiting  eyes  did  gleam 
With  hungry  looks  to  see  them  eat  ? 


The  shades  of  afternoon  are  coming  on  ; 
The  fitful  gleaming  of  the  Lake  is  gone : 
It  lies  subdued  within  the  mellow  light, 
And  wins  serener  homage  at  the  night. 

The  little  boat  creeps  outward  from  the  shore, 
And  handsome  cheeks  are  browning  at  the  oar ; 
While  laughing  lips  are  singing  "  Trancadillo," 
With  dream  of  starry  skies  and  ocean  billow. 

The  boisterous  game  has  ceased  upon  the  sward, 
And  down  to  rest  they  sink  with  one  accord : 
Here,  too,  the  breath  of  music  floats  along 
Their  ranks,  and  rises  into  pensive  song. 

May  be,  the  ballad  of  a  simple  maid, 
Who  left,  she  knew  not  how,  her  cottage  shade ; 
Led  on  by  wiser,  gentler  folk,  who  thought 
To  make  a  lady,  since  a  baron  sought !  — 


PART    II. NEW    ENGLAND. 

Ah  !  left  the  rough  and  honest  throbbing  heart 
Of  her  sweet  lover,  for  the  smoother  part 
Of  jewelled  matron,  waited  on,  —  to  die 
For  love  and  freedom,  work  and  poverty  ! 

Who  snatches  up  her  baby,  running  fast 
Beyond  the  gateway,  till  the  Hall  is  passed ; 
And  sobs  and  sings,  and  dreams  a  moment  he 
Is  laughing  on  her  loving  peasant's  knee. 

Or  else  it  is  a  song  of  olden  time, 
When  clinking  glasses  rang  out  to  the  rhyme, 
And  hands  in  masonry  of  love  did  clasp, 
Warmed  with  the  cheer  that  locked  old  friendship's 
grasp. 


The  day  is  closing :  must  they  rise  and  go  ? 
So  things  do  have  their  ending  here  below : 
Blessed  the  hour  that  groweth  on  and  on 
Deeper  and  richer,  fuller,  yet  is  never  gone !  — 

The  hour  that  wears  the  freshening  dew  of  youth  ; 
The  hour  that  blossoms  in  immortal  Truth ; 
Into  to-day,  to-morrow  never  wrought ; 
Unbroken  by  the. joys  that  are,  and  then  are  not! 


THE    PICNIC.  83 


They  move  along  upon  their  homeward  way 
In  silence,  night  and  earth's  dim  melody : 
The  elders  speak,  in  undertone,  of  days 
Like  these,  of  old,  though  better,  sweeter  far,  always ! 

'The  young  man,  sitting  near  the  maid  so  still, 
Is  satisfied  even  now,  if  so  she  will 
(While  he  is  looking  deep  into  her  eyes) 
Point  out  to  him  the  stars  and  their  sweet  ministries. 

The  valley  opens  now  to  take  them  home ; 
The  village  slumbers  waking  till  they  come ; 
Fair  forms  are  dallying,  — now  they  creep  from  sight; 
Sweet  voices  linger  on  the  air :  good-night,  good-night ! 


PART    II.— -NEW   ENGLAND. 


THE     GERMAN    LESSON. 


THEY  sat  together  many  a  winter's  eve, 

When  blew  the  winds  without,  and  brightly  shone 

The  fire  upon  the  wall,  and  flashed  its  light 

On  a  youth's  face  j  while  deep  and  blacker  grew 

His  eyes  with  every  gleam,  and  glowed  upon 

A  beauteous  maiden's,  till  they  browned  away 

Unto  a  gentle  softness.     Yet  not  o'er 

One  page  they  sat,  like  them  who  read  of  old 

The  tale  of  Launcelot  and  sweet  Ginevra: 

Each  held  a  book,  being  a  space  apart ; 

Yet  not  so  far  but  some  magnetic  chain 

Might  run  between,  had  it  so  pleased  them  both! 

And  one  was  ready,  had  he  dared,  to  throw 

A  trembling  chord  electric  from  his  heart ; 

But,  ah  !  he  feared  'twould  find  no  resting-place, 

And  come  all  quivering  back.     So  there  it  staid, 

And  kindled  up  a  fire  within  his  eyes : 

I  marvel  that  the  maiden  saw  it  not. 


THE    GERMAN    LESSON.  85 

They  read  together  o'er  the  nervous  page 
Of  high-strung  Schiller,  he  who  hath  set  on 
Many  a  youth  to  seek  a  nobler  fame, 
And  love  and  liberty.     The  maiden  warmed : 
Her  woman's  soul  beat  high  and  tenderly 
In  the  great  Poet's  presence,  who  was  pure 
As  heart  of  woman.     She  was  folio  win  «•  him 

CD 

In  full  pursuit  after  the  fair  Ideal  : 

She  knew  not  she  was  leaving  there  behind 

A  living,  breathing  love,  nobility, 

And  truth,  to  which  the  fairest  Romance  and 

The  loftiest  Poesy  gleamed  cold  and  chill 

As  marble  lips  before  the  quivering  glow 

Of  Life.     Alas  !  why  are  we  always  up 

Among  the  skies,  when  Grace  doth  wreathe  itself 

Around  the  poor  tents  that  we've  pitched  below, 

And  radiant  Love  is  at  the  very  door, 

All  ready  to  stream  in,  and  light  it  up  ? 

'Tis  true,  when  they  came  down  again,  —  she  and 
The  Poet,  —  she  did  smile  upon  the  youth; 
Yet  it  was  only  that  the  maid  was  pleased 
Because  they  went  so  high.     But  what  knew  he, 
Poor  youth!  how  many  leagues  they'd  flown  up  in 
The  realms  of  Fancy,  when  he  all  the  time 
Saw  only  her  ?     What  cared  he  where  she  went, 


86  PART    II.  NEW    ENGLAND. 

So,  through  the  ambient  air  of  Poesy, 
She  vanished  not  from  sight? 

.    The  maid  was  touched 

With  a  sweet  hope  to  reach  the  nameless  beauty 
That  haunts  the  Poet's  dreams.     The  youth  was  fired 
With  a  reality :  he  saw  it  in 
Her  face  and  soul. 

Yet,  when  the  village  clock 
Each  time  struck  out  the  hour  when  he  was  used 
To  close  the  book,  and  go,  he  punctual  rose, 
Bade  her  a  stiff  "  Good-night ! "  and  left  the  room 
Like  the  unlimbered  Schoolmaster.     Not  more 
Rebellious  was  the  urchin  at  his  task, 
Who  chafed  and  fretted  in  his  seat  to  see 
The  open  sky,  than' his  unruly  heart, 
That  beat  about,  and  strove  to  press  him  back 
Again  to  the  sweet  air  of  Love. 

Yet  he 

Knew  how  to  rule ;  but  this  was  sterner  stuff 
Than  he  had  grappled  with,  —  this  rebel  heart, 
All  fortified  with  mightiest  power  of  Earth. 
Yes,  Love,  thou  couldst  subdue  the  Schoolmaster, 
And  do  whate'er  thou  wouldst  with  him.     Ah  !  could 


THE    GERMAN    LESSON.  87 

The  boys  have  seen  him  as  he  homeward  went, 

How  thou  didst  pull  him  back  at  every  step, 

They  would   have  joined  their  hands   in   thine,  and 

said 
Thou  wert  the  very  likeliest  rogue  of  all. 

So  every  week  he  through  the  dark  night  went 

All  warm  and  gay  and  eager,  and  came  forth, 

From  out  the  lightsome   room,  chilled   through,   and 

crushed 

And  maddened  by  his  own  unbroken  silence. 
He  seemed 'to  see  himself  uprising  there 
An  everlasting  glacier  unto  her, 
His  Sun ;  and,  though  the  intensity  of  heat 
Was  wearing  him  away  within,  untouched 
Without,  before  the  summer  of  her  look, 
He  stood  there  cold,  serene,  unchangeable : 
Far  better  had  she,  with  a  scorching  hate, 
Dissolved  him  from  her  presence  evermore. 

At  length  the  last  night  came ;  and  he  rose  up, 

Bade  her  farewell,  and  gave  to  her  one  look 

Of  love  unutterable  —  (in  that  look, 

All  his  long  tenderness  and  agony 

Leaped  from  its  pent-up  silence,  and  spoke  through 

Those  eyes),  —  and  went  out  from  her  face  for  ever. 


88  PART    II.  NEW    ENGLAND. 

She  saw  it  now !  and,  when  his  echoing  steps 

Died  fast  away,  she  started  up,  and  then 

She  sank  her  head,  and  mused  in  a  strange  sadness. 

Ah !  had  she  loved,  she  would  not  have  sat  there : 

She  would  have  flung  herself  upon  the  night, 

And  called  him  back  with  such  a  love-rent  voice, 

That  he  had  shortly  been  upon  her  breast. 

No,  no,  poor  lover !  not  there  canst  thou  rest 

Thy  head.     Go  thou,  and  still  thy  fevered  heart 

Upon  the  bosom  of  the  world :  'tis  rough 

Indeed  ;  but  trust  her ;  she  knows  well  thy  ails  ; 

For  she  hath  cured  many  a  heart  like  thine, 

Or  bound  it  up,  so  that  it  drifted  through 

This  troublous  sea,  and  reached  the  shore  at  last. 


FORESHADOWING    OF    SPRING. 


89 


THE  FORESHADOWING   OF   SPRING. 


BENEATH  the  languid  sky  my  Spirit  loves  to  lie, 
'And  bathe  herself  all  o'er  in  witching  sadness : 
Her  wings  she  doth  unfold,  the  heavens  are  fair  out 

rolled, 
And  now  she  floats  away  in  idle  gladness. 


I  love  the  South  wind  breathing,  as,  round  old  Winter 
wreathing, 

She  melts  his  spirit  with  her  gentle  sighing ; 
As  tender-nursed  flowers  craze  us  for  Summer  bowers, 

While  yet  the  snow  in  woodland  nooks  is  lying. 


I  love  the  gentle  haze  that  dulls  the  glittering  blaze 
Of  pallid  wintry  sun,  that  warmeth  not : 

It  melts  my  charmed  heart;  and,  when  the  fountains 

start, 
She  weepeth  tears  of  sweet,  poetic  thought. 


PART    II.  NEW   ENGLAND. 

I  love  the  sunlight  playing,  and  longer,  longer  staying 
Upon  my  wall  each  Spring-tide  afternoon : 

It  waketh  mystic  longing,  —  fair  visions  on  me  throng 
ing 
Of  silver- voiced  May  and  golden  June. 


Ah,  Soul !   they're  never  granting  the  joys  for  which 

thou'rt  panting,  — 

Not  May's  young  buds,  nor  June  with  all  her  roses ! 
Not  here  thou'lt  find  thy  Spring  nor  peaceful  Summer 
ing: 
Tis  there  thy  hope  in  full  delight  reposes ! 


Art  weary,  then,  of  striving,  and  never  yet  arriving  ? 

Mightier  the  boon  when  it  is  grasped  by  thee ! 
Go  on  with  thy  sweet  dreaming  amidst  a  world  of 
seeming: 

Diviner  will  at  last  the  wakin^  be ! 


THE    BROKEN    HOME. 


91 


THE    BROKEN    HOME. 


THEY  bore  her  all  the  night  with  faces  pale, 
Nearer  and  nearer  to  the  sleeping  vale, 
Where,  in  sweet  blossoming, 
She  waved  at  early  Spring,  — 
Cut  down  before  the  Summer  grass  was  withering. 

They  followed  close  upon  her,  —  father,  mother ; 
And,  slow  behind,  the  sister  and  the  brother : 
They  spoke  not,  soft  or  loud ; 
They  saw  her  in  her  shroud, 

And   looked  with  awe  and  dread  around  upon   each 
other. 

They  drew  nigh  to  the  lindens  by  the  gate : 
The  willows,  with  bowed  head,  did  mutely  wait. 
Why  stirreth  not  the  house  ? 
Why  do  they  not  arouse  ? 
It  was  not  always  still  when  they  came  home  so  late ! 


PART    II.  NEW    ENGLAND. 

They  do  not  sleep,  —  they  hear  the  passing  feet 
They  will  not  come,  they  cannot  come,  to  meet ! 
But  when  they  ope  the  door, 
And  rest  upon  the  floor, 

With    dull    and    heavy   fall,    the   burden   which    they 
bore, 

It  jarred  the  stillness  there  within,  —  that  sound 
Ringing  so  hollow  all  the  house  around ! 
Slender  and  lithe  and  white, 
As  poplar  in  moonlight, 

The    little    sister   came    down   stairs    with   frightened 
bound. 

She  clung  upon  the  brave  young  man,  her  brother : 
.   Before  her  grief  his  sobs  he  could  not  smother ; 
He  turned  away,  and  durst 
Not  look  on  her  at  first, 

Nor  speak  a  gentle  word,  lest  they  should  strong  out 
burst. 

When  from  afar  he  came  in  pleased  delight, 
He  used  to  praise  her  beauty  morn  and  night : 

Though  grown  to  womanhood, 

A  trembling  child  she  stood ; 
And  he  alone  could  calm  her  wild  young  pulse's  flood. 


THE    BROKEN    HOME.  93 

At    length    he    spoke,    and    made    her    dry    eyes 

weep  ; 

And  told  her  how  she  sang  herself  to  sleep, 
And  how  her  head  she  prest 
Upon  the  mother's  breast, 
With  dreamy,  dying  words  of  love  for  all  the  rest. 

So  they  together  wept  and  calmed  again, 
Or  fell  asleep  with  sudden-starting  pain ; 
But,  ere  the  morning  light 
Made  gray  the  lingering  night, 

Down   swept  the  clouds  before  the  day  with  heavy 
rain. 

More  dread  than  midnight  soon  became  the  morn ; 
The  lurid  lightning  paled  their  faces  worn ; 

The  long,  low  thunder  rolled, 

As  if  a  requiem  bold, 
For  all  mortality  that  was  and  is,  it  tolled ! 

Oh,  terrible  it  is  to  be  with  death,  — 
Alone  with  stiffened  clay,  without  its  breath, 

When  Nature  glooms  the  while  ; 

Ere  yet  we  see  the  smile 
Beyond,  where  its  fair  soul  in  sunlight  hovereth ! 


94  PART   II.  NEW   ENGLAND. 

But,  hush !  how  sacred,  sweet,  came  forth  the  day 
When  they  were  going  to  lay  the  loved  away ! 
The  earth  seemed  holier ; 
No  flower  or  leaf  astir : 
All  pensive  ceased  their  work  in  honor  unto  her. 

She  lies  within  the  cheerful,  hallowed  room 
Where  once  were  always  smiles,  and  never  gloom ; 
And  wild  young  spirits  roving, 
And  gentle  fireside  loving, 

And  guests  who  in  and  out  were  ever  gayly  mov 
ing. 

She  need  not  make  it  sad ;  for  she  reposes, 
All  covered  o'er  with  lilies  and  with  roses : 
Only  she  used  to  wear 
The  lilies  in  her  hair ; 

Now  she,  with   clasped   hands,  them   on   her   breast 
encloses  ! 

Gently  the  minister  the  Gospel  read ; 
For  he  was  near  of  kin  to  the  sweet  dead  : 

Ah  !  hers  was  kinship  wide ; 

For  who  was  not  allied 
In  love  unto  that  beauteous  girl,  the  country's  pride  ? 


THE    BROKEN    HOME.  95 

The  young  men  and  the  maidens,  in  a  ring, 
Stood  round  her  lone  piano  there,  to  sing 
The  hymn  she  loved  the  best,  — 
Such  hymn  as  calms  the  breast, 

And  speaks   of  peace   in   God,  and   endless,  endless 
rest. 

Then  all  arose,  and  went  out  at  the  door : 
Her  gray  horse  faithfully  —  as  when,  before, 
He  drew  her,  crowned  with  flowers, 
To  all  the  laughing  bowers  — 
Unto  the  graveyard  went  to  leave  her  evermore ! 

She  sleeps,  she  sleeps :  they  know  that  she  is  gone ! 
They  miss  her  in  the  evening  and  at  morn : 
T^e  stranger  there  who  came, 
And  heard  them  speak  her  name 

"With  words  so  hushed  and  sweet,  now  tones  his  voice 
the  same. 

'Twas  not  her  looks,  —  though  she  of  womanhood 
Was  fairest ;  nor  her  deeds,  —  though  she  was  good  : 
It  was  because  she  loved, 
That,  wheresoe'er  she  moved, 

Amid  the  old  and  young,  queen  .o'er  all  hearts  she 
stood ! 


96  PART    II.  NE\Y    ENGLAND. 

She  sleeps  ;  but  she  shall  walk  in  loveliness 
Adown  the  future  years,  with  fond  caress 
From  every  passer-by 
On  her  sweet  memory, 
Winning  from  mortals  fairest  immortality  ! 


AN    AUTUMN    WALK.  97 


AN     AUTUMN     WALK. 


WHAT  aileth  thee,  thou  art  so  sad  to-night, 

0  Nature  ?  —  say,  what  is  it  weighs  on  thee  ? 
Thou  art  as  calm,  and  noiseless  too,  as  death. 

1  cannot  even  hear  thee  sigh  amid 

The  trees.     If  thou  wouldst  break  thy  apathy, 

Thy  endless  quietude,  I'd  talk  and  weep  with  thee ; 

Nor  ask  one  single,  golden  smile  upon 

The  river  waiting  here  so  patiently. 

And  yet  thou'rt  sweet,  like  a  poor,  love-crushed  girl, 

Who  careth  not  that  she  is  beautiful ; 

And,  all  unmindful  of  the  hand  of  friend, 

Or  of  the  voice  of  childhood,  still  bespeaks 

A  gentle,  uninvited  sympathy. 

I  rustle  'mong  the  leaves  to  rouse  thee  up. 

Not  that !  —  it  minds  thee  how  thou  didst  deck  out 

The  dying  Summer,  ere  she  did  depart ; 

Who  gave  a  sickly  smile  at  her  new.  dress, 

With  flush  upon  her  cheek,  and  sank  away. 


98  PART    II. NEW    ENGLAND. 

I  will  betake  me  homeward ;  for  I  see 
There  is  no  high  commune  with  thee  to-night : 
But,  when  the  gray  Morn  comes  to  meet  thee,  thou 
Perchance  wilt  burst  into  a  shower  of  tears ! 


THE    QUILTING.  99 


QUILTING    AND    HUSKING, 


I. 

THE    QUILTING. 

HIGH  up  among  the  attic  beams 
There  is  a  great  old  airy  room : 
The  golden  sun  in  silence  streams 
Adown  the  roof,  and  cheers  the  gloom. 
'Tis  lonely  through  the  summer  day ; 
'Tis  dreary  at  the  winter  night : 
It  hears  afar  the  children  play, 
But  never  sees  their  wild  delight. 
And  yet  a  pleasant  look  and  kind 
It  hath,  like  some  old-fashioned  face, 
That  calleth  troublous  days  to  mind, 
And  wears  a  thousand  memories. 

The  ancient  clock  all  hushed  appears, 
And  keenly  stareth  out  the  hours : 
The  very  Time  he  served  for  years 
Has  paralyzed  his  vital  powers. 


100  PART   II. NEW   ENGLAND. 

The  spinning-wheel  is  foundered  on 

A  crumbling  shelf  of  brick  and  clay ; 

The  wheel  the  sun  doth  gleam  upon ; 

The  shuttle  fades  in  dark  away. 

A  pillion  hangeth  good  as  new ; 

A  gilded  coat  that  figured  grand 

At  country  muster,  to  review 

The  young  militia  of  the  land ; 

And  books  with  covers  stiff  and  hard 

As  old  theology  therein ; 

Or  scattered  leaves  of  gentle  bard, 

Who  talks  of  love,  and  not  of  sin ; 

Or  sorry  pages  of  Romance, 

Blurred  with  the  tears  of  stolen  glance. 

The  mice  are  pattering  at  their  will 
Along  the  ledges,  peeping  down 
To  watch  the  melons  on  the  sill, 
Lest  they  perchance  too  ripe  have  grown ; 
While  luscious  odors  go  and  come, 
Blent  with  the  scent  of  herbs  that  dry 
Upon  the  floor,  —  sweet  marjoram 
And  pleasant  summer  savory. 

But  we  are  prosing  on  our  way : 
The  old  room  is  not  still  to-day ! 


THE    QUILTING.  101 

Behold  the  Quilt  that  opens  wide 

With  joints  that  hoarsely  creak,  and  sway 

It  rickety  from  side  to  side ! 

The  bustling  housewife  sitteth  still 
Awhile  from  all  her  thousand  cares, 
Driving  her  needle  with  the  will 
That  sent  the  broom  along  the  stairs. 

And  thin  and  sour  maidenhood 

Is  here  with  her  forebodings  ill, 

To  drop  them  round  in  bitter  mood,  — 

A  wholesome  and  religious  pill. ' 

And  gentle  single  lady,  —  best 
And  sweetest  being  God  has  made ; 
Whom  He  hath  left  the  loneliest 
To  blossom  pale  within  the  shade, 
While  all  around  with  fruit  are  blest : 
That  she  afar  such  fragrance  sweet 
May  send,  the  young  unto  her  feet 
Shall  come  to  feel  her  sanctity, 
And  learn  of  her  to  live  and  die. 

The  village  gossip  prateth  free 
And  fearlessly  of  things  that  are, 
Or  (what  is  better,  sweeter  far) 
So  cautiously  of  what  may  be. 


102  PART    IT.  —  NEW   ENGLAND. 

And  romping  maidens  sit  and  sew, 
With  little  smothered  jests  that  half 
From  nothing  come,  to  nothing  go, 
So  easy  'tis  for  girls  to  laugh ! 

Yet  it  is  hard  for  Meggie :  see ! 

The  one  who  works  so  pensively, 

The  maiden  with  the  deep-gray  eyes, 

Who  very  quietly  doth  sew, 

Yet  draws  her  breathing  hard,  as  though 

She  shut  beneath  a  world  of  sighs. 

She  thinks  how  Richard  bowed  to-day 

As  they  two  met  upon  the  way ; 

How  quick  he  turned  his  looks  in  haste 

Aside,  as  though  he  said  a  fair 

"  Good-morning  "  unto  her,  and  there 

It  ended,  —  more  he  could  not  waste ! 

She  hears  the  hum  of  talk  go  round ; 

Upon  her  ear  as  far-off  speech 

It  comes,  a  drowsy,  murmuring  sound,  — 

But  not  a  word  her  soul  doth  reach ; 

Click  go  the  needles  in  and  out. 

"  Say,  Meggie,  what  dost  think  about  ?  " 

Said  buxom  Nell,  who  near  her  sat: 

"  Thou  draw'st  thy  needle  in  without 

The  thread,  and  what's  the  use  of  that  ?  " 


THE    QUILTING. 

She  starteth  up  with  sudden  flush 
Of  fear,  that  spreadeth  more  and  more, 
And  runneth  down  with  purple  blush 
Upon  her  neck  so  white  before  ; 
And  some  confused  words  doth  say, 
"  Her  head  is  aching  dull  to-day  : " 
Yet  back  she  fell  into  the  maze 
Of  tangled  thoughts  that  set  ablaze 
Her  heart  with  little  fears  that  grew 
To  certainty  within  her  view. 
The  old  room  spun  around  her  head ; 
Yet  on  she  worked  with  nervous  dread. 

And  now  at  length  the  young  men  meet 
To  join  them  in  their  simple  treat ; 
But  Meggie  lifteth  not  her  eye 
Till  Richard  ere  long  passes  by, 
And  calls  "  Good-even  "  cheerfully, 
As  he  were  not  ashamed  to  say 
It  boldly,  and  go  on  his  way. 

The  girls  from  out  their  seats  do  run, 
Impatient  for  the  sport  and  fun  ; 
But  Meggie's  stint  is  never  done. 
She  sews,  and  passes  now  a  joke  — 
A  poor  and  pallid  thing  —  to  choke 


103 


104  PART    II. NEW    ENGLAND. 

The  fluttering  in  her  bosom,  lest 
The  old  ones  see  her  throbbing  breast. 

And  Richard  whiles  the  moments  well : 

He  laughs  and  talks  with  buxom  Nell, 

And  all  the  time  in  Meggie's  view ! 

She's  not  afraid  of  Nell,  'tis  true, 

Who  giggles  loud,  and  romps  so  too  ; 

But  little,  sweet-mouthed,  laughing  Fan, 

He  likes  to  be  with  her,  'tis  plain : 

The  smiles  are  always  on  her  cheeks, 

Though  very  few  the  words  she  speaks. 

She's  watching,  wheresoe'er  she  goes, 

Her  old  grandmother ;  smooths  her  clothes, 

And  threads  her  needle  ;  finds  her  case, 

With  never  spectacles  therein, 

And  looks  for  them  in  every  place, 

Nor  tires  of  putting  them  within. 

Ah !  Richard  —  how  can  he  but  see 

How  dutiful  and  sweet  is  she  ? 

Poor  Meggie !  keep  the  tear-drops  back  ! 

The  gossip  —  she  will  see,  alack  ! 

And  count  them  o'er,  and  they  will  grow 

So  many  that  she  cannot  keep  ' 

Them.     Ere  to-morrow  night,  she'll  show 

How  'tis  for  love  that  Meg  doth  weep. 


THE    QUILTING.  105 

And  on  she  stitched ;  she  worked  away ; 

The  little  diamonds  in  she  stitched ; 

So  fast  from  out  her  fingers  they 

Do  grow,  they  think  she  is  bewitched. 

The  old  ones  say  she  quilts  the  best 

Of  all,  and  is  the  handsomest. 

The  centre  is  a  golden  star, 

Made  up  of  rays  from  near  and  far ; 

It  shineth  into  Meggie's  face ; 

Before  her  eyes  it  seems  to  run, 

The  colors  blending  all  in  one. 

A  stitch  or  more  within  its  place,  — 

And  then,  behold  !  the  Quilt  is  done ; 

A  stitch  or  more  from  Meggie's  hand  ! 

Her  dizzy  brain  is  turning  fast : 

The  idle  gazers  round  do  stand. 

"  The  Quilt  is  done  ! "  they  cry ;  "  and  she 

Who  chanced  to  put  a  stitch  the  last, 

The  very  first  shall  wedded  be  ! " 

Sweet  Meggie  starts  in  quick  surprise: 
She  seems  to  see  the  star  arise, 
And  gaze  on  her  with  tender  eyes, 
Then  slowly  sink  before  her  sight : 
So  sinks  her  star  of  love  and  light, 
And  youth  and  joy,  in  deepest  night ! 


106  PART    II. NEW   ENGLAND. 

II. 
THE    HUSKING. 

They  sit  amid  the  silken  corn : 
It  is  a  sweet  October  morn ; 
The  sky  is  warm  and  mellow  'neath 
The  calm,  benignant  Autumn  sun ; 
And  not  a  whisper  or  a  breath 
Of  luscious,  balmy  air  doth  run 
Throughout  the  leaves  to  break  the  peace 
Of  Nature's  golden  harvest  ease. 

Sweet  Meggie's  head  is  very  fair, 

And  softer  than  the  silken  ear : 

A  deeper  gold  is  in  her  hair 

Than  gleams  from  out  the  husks  anear ; 

But,  ah !  it  fades,  —  the  ripening  grace 

Of  russet  youth,  that  took  the  place 

Of  paleness  once  upon  her  face. 

A  pretty  sight  it  is  to  see 

How  all  are  working  busily ; 

And,  when  the  baskets  hold  no  more, 

The  sunburnt  striplings  heave  their  weight 

Ou  trolled  upon  the  granary  floor, 

And  come  and  go  with  shining  freight. 


THE    HUSKING. 

What  -pleasant  rustling  all  around, 
That  mingles  with  a  murmuring  sound  ! 
Like  summer  brook  that  hummeth  on, 
Or  laugheth  out  in  sport  anon, 
The  tide  of  talk  is  rippling  low ; 
Then  onward,  wilder,  it  doth  go, 
And  breaketh  into  noisy  flow  : 
And  now  it  ebbs  again  ;  and  they, 
Industrious,  rip  the  husks  away. 
The  air  is  still,  except  within 
The  barn  the  cricket  chirpeth  in 
The  new-mown  hay ;  and  so  he  sings, 
And  deeper  silence  on  them  brings. 

But  what  is  this  ?     The  Red  Ear !  see  ! 
And  Meggie  fmdeth  it :  'tis  she  ! 
Oh !  what  a  boisterous,  sudden  shout 
From  all  the  youths  and  maids  comes  out ! 
Up  jump  they  quick  in  wild  delight, 
And  tip  the  baskets  in  their  fun. 
A  forfeit !     Draw  the  lots  aright, 
And  see  who  'tis  shall  kiss  her !     Run  ! 
She  blushes  deep  all  o'er  her  face, 
And  creeps  into  a  quiet  spot. 
Look,  look !  'tis  Richard  draws  the  lot ! 
He  runs  into  her  hiding-place. 


107 


108  PART    II. NEW    ENGLAND. 

She  trembles  in  a  lovely  fright ; 

And,  as  her  cheek  he  kisses  bold, 

* 

Her  mouth  is  smiling  so  in  spite 
Of  her  sweet  modest  self,  behold ! 
He  kisses  her  upon  her  lips ; 
And  quick  among  the  crowd  he  dips, 
To  'scape  the  showering  jokes  that  fly 
From  out  the  noisy  company. 

And  now  the  frolic  is  begun : 
Sweet  Meggie  dares  not  lift  her  eye ; 
For  Richard  he  is  always  by. 
He  helps  her  when  she  tears  her  gown, 
And  drives  the  ugly  nail  adown  ; 
He  catches  her  at  Fox  and  Geese ; 
And,  in  the  dance,  she  ever  sees 
Him  opposite,  or  trembling  feels 
Him  watch  to  take  her  down  the  reels. 

The  hours  of  day  are  fading  fast ; 
The  huskers  now  are  turning  home : 
Her  sweet  excitement  cannot  last ; 
The  flush  upon  her  cheek  is  past, 
And  pale  uncertainty  is  come. 
They  leave  the  threshold  one  by  one, 
And  Meggie  lingers  there  alone. 


THE    HUSKING. 

She  picks  the  Red  Ear  from  the  floor, 
And  stands,  and  looks  it  o'er  and  o'er. 
But,  hark !  a  rustling  she  doth  hear. 
She  turns :  'tis  Richard  standing  near. 
She  drops  the  corn  with  arm  that  shook ; 
He  with  a  sober  face  doth  stand : 
"  Fair  Meggie,  does  it  burn  thy  hand? 
Wast  thou  ashamed  to  have  me  look  ? 
The  Red  Ear,  was  it  so  to  blame,  — 
The  little  Red  Ear,  — that  it  came 
To  know  how  I  have  longed  to  kiss 

Thee,  Meggie,  and  permitted  this  ?  " 

\ 

Her  tears  are  dropping  on  the  ground ; 

But  not  a  word  she  hath  to  say : 

Her  head  she  will  not  turn  around. 

"  I  love  thee :  go  thou  not  away 

Till  thou  hast  heard."     She  lifts  her  eyes, 

" Thou  lovest  me  since  yesterday"  — 

And  looks  at  him  in  calm  surprise. 

"  O  Me^ie  !  did  I  give  thee  pain  ? 

And  so  I  would  again,  again, 

Could  I  those  little  tears  behold. 

The  young  men  said  that  thqu  wast  cold ; 


110  PART    II. NEW    ENGLAND. 

Thou  caredst  not  a  single  straw 
For  all  the  gallants,  young  or  old : 
Thy  love  'twas  folly  waiting  for." 

"  And  so  for  them  I  do  not  care  ! " 
She  says.     He  looks  her  in  the  face,  — 
The  sweet  confession  rising  there,  — 
And  draws  her  quick  to  his  embrace, 
And  kisses  off  the  tears  that  rise, 
And  change  to  smiles  within  her  eyes : 
"  Dear  love !  I  was  but  trying  thee." 
"  Ah !  never,  never  jest,"  said  she. 
"  Dost  think  'twas  easy,  then,  for  me  ? 
Did  I  not  know  that  thou  wast  fair, 
With  all  the  rest  beyond  compare,  — 
The  sweetest  maiden  quilting  there  ? 
And  saw  I  not  how  swift  did  fly 

Thy  little  fingers  silently  ?  — 

None  but  the  old  ones  staying  by ; 

And  I  of  envy  like  to  die, 

That  they  could  sit  so  near  to  thee ! 

I  thought,  '  If  she  would  only  drop 

One  little  look,  this  game  I'd  stop.' 

Ah,  Meggie !  thou  wast  proud,  —  wast  proud  !  " 

She  gently  smiled,  and  shook  her  head : 

Her  face  upon  his  neck  he  bowed. 


THE   HUSKING. 

"  I  did  not  love  thee  less,"  he  said, 
For  that,  thou  little  haughty  maid." 

So  on  his  arm  sweet  Meggie  leant ; 
And  forth,  at  set  of  sun,  they  went 
Along  the  meadow  where  the  brook 
Was  wandering  in  a  willowy  nook, 
And  sang  the  lonely  Whippoorwill 
Awhile,  till  all  the  night  was  still : 
Then  rose  the  Hunter's  Moon  to  light 
Them  home  to  sweetly  dreaming  night. 


Ill 


112  PART    II.  —  NEW   ENGLAND. 


THE  NORTHERN  LIGHTS. 


Lo  !  in  the  chambers  of  the  North 

A  wondrous  brightness  streameth  forth  ! 

Are  those  cold  lands  afraid  of  night, 

Impatient  for  the  warm  sunlight  ? 

Can  they  not  for  Aurora  wait, 

But  must  that  wondrous  light  create  ? 

Yes,  strangely  beautiful  are  ye, 
Nor  ever  chill  or  cold  to  me ; 
Those  truly  are  not  melting  beams, 
But  strong,  inspiring  radiant  gleams. 
Yon  Polar  climes  in  earth  or  sky 
Speak  words  with  meaning  great  and  high. 
The  Southern  gales  may  gently  fan 
The  feeble  breast  of  fainting  man ; 
But,  oh  !  drink  in,  ye  firm  and  strong ! 
That  living  breath,  and  ponder  long 
Upon  those  stars  so  clear  and  bright, 
And  on  that  mystic  wall  of  light, 


THE    NORTHERN    LIGHTS.  113 

Till  in  yourselves  at  length  may  be 
Some  spark  in  which  perchance  ye'll  see 
The  grand  old  North's  immensity. 

Remember  him,  that  glowing  heart, 
Who  dared  to  make  himself  a  part 
Of  strong  defiant  Nature  there  ; 
And,  'mid  the  breath  of  Polar  air, 
Did  win  her  unto  friendship  by 
The  earnest  reverence  of  his  eye, 
And  showed  her  to  the  gaze  of  men, 
And  died  —  to  live  immortal  then. 

The  sons  of  Norway  well  might  deem 
Those  glittering  spears  the  dazzling  gleam 
From  lances  wielded  by  the  hand 
Of  heroes  in  Walhalla's  land ; 
Or  Indian  see  the  red  deer  bound 
From  arrows  glancing  all  around 
In  the  Eternal  Hunting-Ground. 

Nightly  Aurora,  Northern  Light ! 
Exalt  our  souls  to  lofty  flight ! 


114  PART    II.  NEW  ENGLAND. 


WAITING  FOR  DEATH. 


SHE  was  alone,  save  one  who  there  did  stand  — 
The  strong  old  nurse  —  all  day  with  decent  hand 
To  smooth  the  pillow  or  to  give  the  cup,  — 
The  cordial  which  must  hold  her  being  up, 
Though  she  in  death  would  gladly  let  it  drop. 

The  early  raptures  of  foretasted  heaven, 
When  she  herself  to  Death  had  willing  given, 
Were  fading ;  for  he  tarried  long  and  late : 
Her  wings,  once  fluttering  to  the  upper  gate, 
At  length  hang  heavy,  —  for  'tis  hard  to  wait. 

"  Farewell,  good  Life !  "  she  said  exultingly : 

"  Thou  hast  been  kind ;  but  they  are  calling  me ! 

I  leave  the  robes,  which  thou  hast  given,  with  thee ; 

And  through  the  night  haste,  ere  those  voices  fly  ! "  - 

But  down  she  fell,  upon  the  verge  of  it, 

So  weary ;  and  Death  would  not  take  her  yet ! 


WAITING    FOU    DEATH. 


115 


She  beard  the  bell  that  told  how  cold  did  lie 

The  little  child,  of  late  so  warm  his  breast, 

With  springing  heart,  quick  gathered  to  his  rest ; 

While  she,  unclothing  of  mortality, 

Was  yet  not  as  the  fair  immortals  drest : 

Not  claimed  of  Life  or  Death,  —  midway  between,  — 

She  lived  not  with  the  unseen  or  the  seen ! 

The  Summer  passed  with  balmy  breath  by  her : 
She  felt  it  warm  her  cheek,  and  heard  it  stir 
The  curtains  of  her  still  and  dusky  room. 
But,  ah !  in  rosy  bloom  she  saw  it  not ; 
And  yet  she  lay  not  there  inwrapt  in  gloom : 
"  I  shall  go  hence  with  it,"  she  fondly  thought. 

The  Autumn  winds  sang  over  Summer's  bier, 
And  strewed  the  dry  leaves  for  a  winding-sheet ; 
But  she,  though  faded  too,  must  linger  here : 
No  dirge  for  her  lost  bloom  was  sounding  yet. 

The  Winter  gathered  darkly  in  the  sky ; 
The  snow-clouds  thickened  in  the  air  around ; 
And  lighter  than  the  early  flakes  that  lie 
In  trembling  haste,  and  melt  upon  the  ground, 
Upon  the  lap  of  life  she  flattering-lay, 
Waiting  in  vain  to  be  dissolved  away. 


H6  PART    II.  —  NEW    ENGLAND. 


Yet  scorned  she  not  the  earth,  nor  did  despise 

Our  little  mortal  doings  here  below : 

She  marked  the  blue  of  heaven,  —  the  glittering  snow  ; 

She  hoped  the  bells  rung  merry  to  and  fro ; 

And  asked  the  maiden,  with  faint  smiling  eyes, 

How  fared  it  with  her  lover,  and  if  he 

Would  come  at  Christmas,  — -  or  before,  maybe. 

For  childlike  Patience  on  her  sat,  more  sweet 

Than  e'en  the  high  delight  which  once  she  wore, 

When  she  was  borne  in  ardent  thought  before 

Unto  the  immortal  life  with  eager  feet. 

Ah  !  many  a  one  there  is  who  sweetly  dies 

In  some  strong  hour  of  mighty  sacrifice ; 

Or  in  the  grasp  of  swift-descending  fate, 

When  terrors  piled  on  terrors  threatening  wait ; 

Or  in  the  eternal  calm  that  falleth  deep, 

When  maddening  fever  ends  its  whirlwind  sweep ! 

But  she  must  feel  for  weeks  and  months  his  breath, 
And  look  for  him  at  eve  or  morning  light ; 
And  lie,  throughout  the  endless  shadowy  night, 
With  senses  all  undimmed  and  vision  bright, 
Figuring  the  ghastly  semblances  of  death ; 
And  meet  the  morrow,  to  replume  anew 
Her  spirit  for  the  last  great  journey  through. 


WAITING    FOR    DEATH.  117 

There  is  release,  —  there  is  release  for  all ; 

For  when  the  Spring  stole  forth  again,  to  call 

With  gentle  sighs  the  world  from  out  its  grave, 

It  came  —  that  hour  —  like  half  the  things  we  crave, 

Yet  dread,  —  came  lightly  when  she  knew  it  not : 

That  hour,  for  which  her  fainting  soul  had  sought 

All  of  its  scattered  energies  to  save, 

Came  like  some  flitting  morning  dream  at  last ; 

And  so  she  to  her  Maker's  bosom  passed. 


118  PART  IT.  NEW    ENGLAND. 


SIMPLICITY. 


TO      THE      NEW-ENGLAND      MAIDEN. 


KNOW  thou,  O  Lady !  there  is  nought  that  sits 

On  thee  more  comely  than  Simplicity : 

The  Poet  ever  flingeth  it  o'er  thee ; 

And  wilt  thou  cast  it  off,  and  say  it  fits 

Alone  the  rustic  maid,  who  queens  it  in 

A  robe  'twere  well  if  thou  again  couldst  win  ? 

Hast  thou  known  distant  climes  and  pageantry  ? 

Remember,  thou  hast  never  seen  pretence 

In  Nature's  face ;  and  learn  not  to  dispense 

(Because  thou  hast  with  courts  perchance  been  free) 

Aught  more  refined  than  simple  courtesy, 

Nor  load  thyself  with  foreign  spoils  from  thence. 

Perhaps  thou  learned  art  in  books  ?  —  canst  speak 

Of  all  philosophies  ?     Bethink  thee,  then, 

How  Wisdom  sat  upon  those  ancient  men, 

In  a  simplicity  serene  and  bare 

As  beauty  on  the  marble  of  the  Greek, 

And  bade  the  dullest  one  talk  with  her  there. 


SIMPLICITY.  119 

A  genius  art  thou  ?     Let  thy  soul's  firelight 
Play  soft  around,  and  come  and  go  about, 
Unconscious  as  thy  breathing,  and  without 
The  thought  of  self;  nor  with  display  so  bright 
Glare  thou,  that  men,  all  shamed  with  their  own  night, 
Do  fear  thy  greatness,  nor  their  own  find  out. 

Canst  walk  in  Beauty's  airy  triumph  high,  — 
Crowds  on  thy  skirts,  whom  thou  dost  stop  and  pay 
Now  with  a  smile  or  two,  to  keep  them  by  ? 
Thy  noblest  slaves  will  surely  drop  away, 
Dost  thou  thy  fairness  school  with  complex  art, 
Nor  let  it  speak  itself  unto  the  heart. 

But  hast  thou  none  of  these,  —  only  a  dear 
And  lovely  spirit  which  doth  grateful  meet 
The  pleased  heart  of  the  world,  as  falleth  sweet 
Childhood's  fond  utterance  on  the  mother's  ear  ? 
Strongest  art  thou  in  Love's  simplicity : 
Ah !  thou  shalt  win  all  men  to  worship  thee ! 


120  PART    II.  NEW    ENGLAND. 


THE   SPIRIT  OF  AUTUMN. 


BEHOLD  the  woodland  tops  that  deck  the  land! 
See  them  burst  forth  in  glory's  ripening  blaze ! 
How  close  yon  brotherhood  of  trees  doth  stand, 
And  put  forth  all  its  strength  at  once  to  raise 
Aloft  that  hanging  of  fair  tapestries, 
With  gold  and  red  inwove,  unto  the  skies ; 
As  some  old  festive  towers  compactly  rise 
On  airy  hillside,  and  afar  are  gleaming, 
One  sheet  of  many-colored  draperies  streaming ! 
The  sombre  massive  Pines  stand  low  in  front, 
Even  as  some  stern,  grim,  iron  portal,  wont 
To  fright  away  all  entrance  at  the  gate. 
But  is  it  dark  within  with  sombre  state  ? 
No,  no !  above,  those  rainbow  pennons  call 
The  guest  at  early  morn  and  evening  late. 
Is  there  not  joy  and  highest  festival 
In  this  and  every  radiant  queenly  hall, 
Where  enters  beauteous  Autumn  at  the  doors, 
And  treads  her  crimson-leafe\l  damask  floors  ? 


THE    SPIRIT    OF    AUTUMN. 


121 


She  is  not  gay :  so  her  they  do  not  meet 

With  loudly  echoing  mirth  and  carolling, 

And  freaks  of  laughter,  as  when  sunny  Spring 

Bounds  forth  so  young  and  frolicsome  and  sweet ! 

But  how  subdued  she  steps,  with  gracious  mien, 

Even  as  of  olden  days  some  sainted  queen, 

Who  walks  adored  with  calm,  majestic  feet, 

While  her  deep  eyes  are  full  of  peace  serene ! 

A  golden  halo  spreads  around  her  face : 

She  seems  to  hold  communion  with  the  unseen ; 

And,  as  she  passeth  in,  she  casts  a  grace 

Which  doth  with  sudden  glow  irradiate 

The  looks  of  those  who  in  her  presence  wait ; 

And  they,  ere  long,  themselves  do  all  subdue 

UntQ  a  sweet  and  high  solemnity, 

Which  melts  into  a  mystic  harmony, 

That,  like  the  murmuring  sea,  doth  whisper  through 

The  pinewood  arches,  and  in  lightness  floats 

'Mid  the  red-maple  windows,  till  on  high, 

Unto  the  grand  mosaic  roof,  the  notes 

At  length  rise  up,  a  mighty  symphony ! 

Hark !  hear  them  sing  her  praise  exultingly, 

While  she  doth  kneel,  her  face  unto  the  sky, 

Inwrapt  in  dreams  of  immortality  :  — 


122 


PART    II. NEW   ENGLAND. 

Glorious  Lady !  sweeter  far 
Than  the  Spring's  young  glances  are, 
Or  her  winning  coquetries, 
Is  the  light  within  thine  eyes. 

Heavenlier  than  the  ripening  grace 
Of  the  ardent  Summer's  face 
Is  the  smile  which,  like  a  dream, 
Ever  round  thy  lips  doth  gleam. 

Richer  than  May's  flaxen  hair, 
Waving  sportive  on  the  air, 
Is  thy  auburn  brown  so  meek, 
Resting  on  thy  brow  and  cheek. 

Lovelier  than  the  flush  of  rose 
O'er  young  June  that  comes  and  goes 
Are  the  deeper  blooms  that  glance 
Over  all  thy  countenance. 


Thou  art  holiest  of  the  three ; 

They  are  children  unto  thee : 

Thou  hast  dreams  which  they  know  not ; 

Thou  art  touched  with  highest  thought. 


THE    SPIRIT    OF    AUTUMN.  123 

But,  0  beauteous  saint !  to  be 
In  thy  rapturous  moods  with  thee ! 
Who  could  turn  him  from  that  hour, 
Stirred  not  by  thy  wondrous  power  ? 

When,  before  the  silent  sky, 
Thou  in  golden  trance  dost  lie, 
In  thy  peace  beatified, 
Who  could  tear  him  from  thy  side  ? 

Let  thy  sisters,  then,  be  gay, 
Happy  spirits  in  their  way : 
Thou  hast  found  the  better  part, 
Autumn,  for  tliou  blessed  art. 


124 


PART    II. NEW    ENGLAND. 


SUNDAY. 


SWEET  day !  shall  I  dare  speak  of  thee, 

When  holy  Herbert  sings  so  well, 

And  far  along  the  past  I  see 

A  line  of  saintly  souls,  who  tell 

Thy  graces,  breathing  from  their  lyres 

High,  aromatic,  pious  fires  ? 

White-winged  thou  sitt'st  as  cherub  in 
Thy  peaceful  seat  above  the  week, 
To  brood  in  freshness  o'er  the  din 
Of  daily  heat,  with  pleadings  meek ; 
And  to  the  good  man's  fading  eye 
Thou  light'st  the  track  of  memory. 

Thy  vanished  treasures  at  his  touch 
Shed  fragrant  odors  on  his  soul ; 
And,  should  his  spirit  faint  o'ermuch, 
The  sacred  Past  shall  make  him  whole, 
And  drop  on  his  discouragement 
As  healing  balm  by  angels  sent. 


SUNDAY.  125 

What  stillness  on  the  Country  falls ! 
She  folds  her  hands,  and  sayeth  grace ; 
And  e'en  the  City  smooths  its  walls, 
And  frames  its  worldly  battered  face 
To  piety,  and  so  doth  pray 
And  sing  the  holy  hours  away. 

Day  of  the  Lord !  —  when  first  he  broke 
In  beauteous  majesty  on  men, 
And  to  the  weeping  Mary  spoke, 
And  glorified  the  earth  again !  — 
Shine  on  our  land,  that  she  may  rest 
From  sin  and  labor  on  his  breast. 

Come,  risen  Master !  shine  that  we 
May  see  the  truth  that  dwells  above ! 
Lift  all  thy  churches  unto  thee, 
And  fold  them  on  thy  heart  of  love ! 
Come,  sanctify  them  ever  by 
The  holy  bonds  of  charity ! 

Beloved  New  England's  old  and  young 
Go  forth  when  morning  bells  do  chime : 
There  is  no  sound  of  noisy  tongue, 
No  masquerade  of  foreign  clime. 
Lord  Jesus !  pray  with  her  that  she 
May  worship  God  in  truth  like  thee ! 


126  PART   II.  NEW   ENGLAND. 


"THE      SILENT     WAY." 


IT  is  a  little  opening  sweet 
That  leads  throughout  the  wood,  and  stills 
The  weary  heart :  a  presence  fills 
This  rare  and  wonderful  retreat, 
Which  all  the  very  being  thrills. 

Think  not  'tis  named  because  a  gloom 
Is  brooding  o'er  it,  like  a  bird 
Of  night  within  the  forest  heard : 
'Tis  rather  like  a  sacred  room, 
Amid  the  noise  of  day  unstirred. 

The  winds  of  March  come  sweeping  by ; 
But,  ah  !  they  cannot  enter  there  : 
The  burning  sun  of  August  air 
Peeps  through  the  leaves,  and  longs  to  lie 
And  cool  him,  —  but  he  may  not  dare. 


THE    SILENT    WAY. 

The  frosts  of  pale  November  chill 
The  heart  of  earth :  but  there  they  fling 
Around  a  crimson  carpeting  ; 
And,  last,  a  mantle  white,  that  will 
Be  never  scanty  there  till  Spring. 

But  go  at  sweet  Midsummer  night : 
The  pines  with  showers  are  spicy  yet ; 
The  birches  tremble  at  the  set 
Of  sun,  in  pale  transfigured  light ; 
And  low  the  savin  clusters  wet. 

Go  on  between  the  tangled  walls 
Of  shining  twigs,  that  drop  the  rain ; 
Then  round  the  hill,  to  greet  again 
The  purple  day  before  it  falls, 
And  breathe  the  clover  on  the  plain. 


127 


PART    II. NEW    ENGLAND. 


THE   OLD   FARMHOUSE. 


IT  stands  within  the  hollow  by  the  road : 
See  you  not  how  the  plenteous  barn  doth  show 
Its  turret,  nestling  warm  in  that  abode, 
Secure  from  all  the  gusty  winds  that  blow  ? 

We  seem  to  reach  it ;  yet  we  are  not  there, 
The  path  runs  in  and  out  so  waywardly. 
But  we  shall  tire  not ;  for  the  boundless  air 
Sweeps  on  our  cheeks  from  off  the  azure  sea. 

The  blithesome  Apple-trees  keep  company 
Along  the  mossy  wall,  and  beckon  on 
With  kindly  looks  that  touch  the  passer-by 
With  thoughts  of  rustic  ease  and  harvests  won ; 

And  mellow  cheer  within  the  farmer's  gate ; 
And  lover  in  the  kitchen,  winter's  night ; 
And  schoolboy  —  full  his  pocket  —  running  late, 
With  stuffed-out  cheek,  like  squirrel  in  a  fright. 


THE    OLD    FARMHOUSE. 

Now  come  we  to  the  lane :  each  side,  abreast, 
They  stand,  with  honest  yeoman  courtesy; 
And  up  we  pass,  until  at  length  we  rest 
Content  beneath  the  great  old  Willow-tree,— 

The  Willow-tree  that  fronts  the  barn  in  pride, 
And  rocks  the  simple  farm-yard  bird  to  sleep, 
And  feels  the  gray  cat  scrambling  up  its  side, 
Chasing  her  kitten,  while  the  moonbeams  creep. 

The  Lilac  clusters  soft  about  the  door, 

And  swells  her  buds  at  dream  of  far-off  Spring, 

To  melt  away  in  purple  bloom,  before 

The  breath  of  June  her  scent  of  rose  doth  fling. 

The  Oriole  hangs  his  jaunty  nest  on  high, 
And  starts  the  modest  Bluebird  on  her  way, 
Till  gold  and  blue  are  meeting  in  the  sky, 
And  ripple  fast  his  notes  with  her  smooth  lay. 

The  Ox  quiescent  in  his  manger  looks, 
And  ponders  on  the  nothingness  of  man : 
"  All  flesh  is  grass."     The  God^of  Brahmin  books 
Shall  find  him  wise  disciple  in  his  van. 
9 


130 


PART   II.  NEW  ENGLAND, 


Around,  the  Cows  are  cropping  at  their  ease 
The  spicy  hay  that  showers  adown  the  space, 
O'erhung  with  spiders'  wreaths,  that  floating  tease 
The  farmer's  eyes  from  every  darksome  place. 

Though,  here  and  there,  an  eager  mother  stands 
With  neck  erect,  and  wandering,  frenzied  eye, 
Calling  her  little  one,  who  in  the  hands 
Of  stranger  rude  went  out  at  morn  to  die. 

But  when  at  eve  the  mellow  sunlight  streams 
Above  the  door,  and  climbs  up  slowly,  where 
It  plays  in  streaks  of  gold  among  the  beams, 
One  deep,  soft  rustle  rises  on  the  air  — 

From  out  the  faithful  herd,  who  trustfully 
Await  their  daily  bread  in  peace  from  Heaven ; 
From  Him  who  watcheth  with  a  tender  eye 
The  little  sparrow  in  his  nest  at  even. 

No  minster  ever  wore  a  sweeter  calm ; 
No  purer  incense  rose  than  their  warm  breath; 
No  worshippers,  unfearing  every  harm, 
Obey  so  well  the  God  of  Life  and  Death. 


THE    OLD    FARMHOUSE.  131 

And  here  the  tenants  pass  their  peaceful  days 
Within  the  raftered  parlor  long  and  low, 
And  fain  would  fashion  to  it  all  their  ways, 
And  in  the  healthful  olden  spirit  grow. 

So,  should  the  comely  housewife,  stepping  light, 
Or  ancient  goodman,  from  their  shades  appear, 
They  may  not  turn  away  ashamed  at  sight 
Of  such  unwonted  quiet  dwellers  here. 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 


THE  WEDDING  PRESENTS. 


GOOD  Charlemagne  was  dead.     The  solemn  chant 

Was  lingering  yet  amid  the  stillness  of 

The  chapel  aisles  within  the  royal  walls 

Of  ancient  Thermes,  whence  of  late  they  bore 

Him  to  his  resting-place,  and  left  him  there,  — 

The  glorious  monarch,  —  dead  and  cold  e'en  as 

The  meanest  fighter  in  his  myriad  ranks ; 

And  colder,  mayhap,  —  since  the  vaults  of  Aix 

Relaxed  them  never  to  the  warming  sun, 

That  gazed  all  day  in  friendliness  upon 

The  soldier's  trampled  grave  of  grass  and  stones ! 

And  Louis  sat  upon  his  father's  throne, 
Presumptuous,  as  though  he'd  ruled  the  land 
For  threescore  years  ;  nor  troubled  he  his  head 
Once  to  bethink  him  how  it  chanced  that  death 
Took  hence  that  grand  old  man,. —  else  were  he  but 
A  mean,  disloyal  subject  still,  and  son ! 


136  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

They  called  him,  too,  the  Debonnaire,  forsooth  ! 
Men  knew  not  why ;  for  he  was  cold  and  hard 
And  sullen  as  old  Thermes'  frowning  walls, 
Save  when  he  broke  a  keen  and  bitter  jest, 
That  chilly  ran  throughout  his  courtiers'  veins, 
And  froze  their  smiles  to  pale  obsequiousness. 

Sweet  Gisla  and  Rotrude  lived  there  within 

The  castle-gates,  —  the  old  King's  daughters  fair ; 

And  emperors  had  sought  to  win  their  hands : 

But  Charlemagne  would  have  them  mind  their  hearts, 

Nor  sternly  bade  their  hands  go  opposite ; 

Nor  forced  the  gentle  girls  to  wed,  as  kings 

And  queens  are  wont  to  do,  with  made-up  smiles 

Of  courtly  resignation  on  their  brows. 

And  so  these  emperors  bowed  themselves  away, 

Much  wondering  at  the  curious  maids,  who  seemed 

So  weary  when  they  talked  of  all  their  lands 

And  pleasure-palaces,  that  were  like  heaven 

Compared  unto  these  gloomy  castle  walls. 

Somehow  they  could  not  light  them  up,  these  fair 

Young  sisters,  unto  talk  and  gayety ; 

And  yet  men  said  they  were  the  stars  that  burned 

In  roundelays,  and  gleamed  athwart  the  sword 

Of  many  a  frenzied  knight,  and  twinkled  round 

The  brave  and  merry  Tournament  of  France. 


THE    WEDDING    PRESENTS.  137 

They  felt  there  was  a  hidden  smile,  in  truth, 
Beneath  the  changing  rose  upon  the  cheek 
Of  hushed  Rotrude ;  and  that  a  quiet  fire 
Was  slumbering  in  young  Gisla's  blacker  eyesr 
That  well  might  warm  the  paleness  of  her  face. 
But,  ah !  they  could  not  wake  it  up,  these  poor 
Gay  puppets  in  their  lace  and  gold,  who  learned 
Their  story,  ere  they  came  awa^  from  home, 
Of  councillors  and  tutors.     So  they  went ; 
And  chance  may  be  the  royal  girls  did  laugh 
At  all  the  bungling  Teutons'  courtesies,  — 
They  born  among  the  flower  of  chivalry. 

The  maids  did  love  two  plainer  gentlemen, 
With  nothing  but  good  swords  to  call  their  own, 
And  swinging  forms,  and  eyes  that  dared  the  world, 
And  big  hearts  throbbing  in  their  manly  breasts, 
And  hands  that  played  with  ladies'  locks  as  light 
As  they  did  boldly  curb  the  restless  steed. 

But  Louis,  this  dear  brother,  knew  how  maids 

Would  throw  their  beauteousness  away,  and  did 

Bethink  him  brotherly  how  best  to  right 

This  sad  mistake.     He  frowned  not  on  them  ;  no ! 

But,  musing  in  a  quiet,  kingly  way, 

He  said  the  palace  of  his  sisters  was 


138  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Not  still  enough,  and  he  would  make  it  seem 

As  calm  as  any  cloister,  so  there  should 

Be  nothing  to  disturb  them.     And  he  smiled ; 

And  smiled  the  sisters  too,  they  knew  not  why, 

Except  they  wished  to  please  this  strange  good  brother, 

Even  though  his  pleasure  felt  so  very  like 

A  shiver  as  it  crept  anear  their  hearts. 

* 

Two  goodly  knights,  one  eve,  ride  gayly  up 

Unto  the  palace-gates :  the  seneschal 

Receives  them  with  a  grim  civility 

Within  the  large  and  silent  court.     But,  mark ! 

He  bars  the  gates  behind  them  with  a  clang ; 

And  forthwith  steps  a  second  officer, 

And  curtly  bids  them  give  to  him  their  swords. 

They  stand  with  looks  amazed :  "What  mean  ye,  men  ? 

We  come  as  messengers  from  our  good  King ! " 

"  Ay,  even  so,  Sir  Knights  ?     How  fares  he  then  ? 
Long  life  to  him,  Louis  le  Debonnaire ! " 

"  He  fares  as  well  as  any  royal  son 
Who  has  been  smelling  'mong  the  tombs  these  six 
Weeks  gone,  and  heard  the  chanting  monks  amid 
The  dampness,  till  they  left  the  old  King  there 
In  peace.     And  Heaven  have  mercy  on  him  now  ! 


THE    WEDDING    PRESENTS.  139 

But  look  !  take  you  this  letter.     Pray  you,  read, 

Nor  be  so  careful  in  your  dignities  ; 

Seeing  'tis  but  your  King  —  no  more,  good  sirs  — 

Who  bids  you  ope  his  castle-doors,  and  have 

A  little  comfort  for  two  gentlemen 

Who're  cold  and  hungry.     Read,  nor  wait  all  night : 

Yon  cursed  flambeau  flickers  in  the  court, 

And  blurs  the  pages  with  a  muddy  light. 

A  decent  keeper  does  not  stay  to  read 

A  king's  certificate,  nor  timorous  keep 

The  bearers  standing  in  the  courteous  wind. 

Ho,  now !  why  do  you  look  so  blank,  and  stare 

On  us  as  Christian  on  the  Infidel  ? 

No  more  of  all  your  pretty  ceremony ! 

We'll  tell  his  Majesty,  you're  not  a  whit 

Behindhand  in  the  rules  of  etiquette." 

He  coughed  a  dry  and  cheerless  cough,  —  the  grim 
Old  seneschal,  —  and  led  the  way  into 
A  room  with  lofty  arches,  grand  enough 
To  suit  the  aiming  of  the  proudest  knight, 
Save  that  these  riders  dreamed  of  chimney-side, 
And  forms,  perchance,  that  moved  in  firelight  sweet ; 
Not  ancient,  sculptured  walls  and  solitude. 
Once  more  he  raised  the  paper  to  the  flame, 
And  ran  his  old  eyes  o'er  the  kingly  page, 


140  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

As  reading  to  himself:  "  Raoul  de  Lys 
And  Robert  de  Quercy." 

"  Those  are  our  names. 

We  come  announcing  that  the  King  will  follow  : 
Make  haste,  that  we  receive  him  not  with  thin 
And  hungry  looks  and  jaded  courtesies." 

"  Sir  Knights,  you  are  my  prisoners  !     Mark  you, 
It  is  the  King's  command,  writ  on  this  page  ! 
More,  you  must  be  apart :  such  is  his  word." 

"  Tis  plain  as  day,"  said  Count  de  Quercy.     "  Look  !  " 
"  In  faith,"  said  Raoul  de  Lys,  "  'tis  written  here." 
"  Yes,  there  is  no  gainsaying  it,"  said  Quercy. 
"  Nor  understanding  royal  whims,"  quoth  Raoul. 

"  Haste,  gentlemen  ;  'tis  late.     Come  you,  De  Quercy ; 
And  stay  you  here,  Baron  de  Lys." 

"Well,  then, 

Good-night !  "  said  gay  De  Lys.     "  Be  cheery,  friend  : 
111  luck  comes  not  within  these  walls,  that  hold 
My  golden  Butterfly  with  silken  touch, 
That  floats  around  the  dark  to  light  it  up  ! 
And  there's  a  dark-eyed  Nightingale,  that  sits, 


THE    WEDDING   PRESENTS.  141 

And  sings  alone  unto  her  faithful  heart : 
You'll  make  her  fill  this  forest  of  grim  walls 
With  sweetest  music  on  the  morrow,  knight !  " 

The  door  swung  close  ;  and  Raoul  sat  alone 

Upon  a  step  of  stone,  and  pondered  long. 

"  Heyday  !  "  he  said  at  length.     "  Fie,  fie  !  art  thou 

A  sick  old  woman,  hearing  sounds,  who  shakes 

At  panelled  doors,  and  ever  thinks  to  run 

Away  from  Death  ?     That  is  the  road  to  him  ! 

Good  knight  doth  never  keep  so  far  away 

From  his  dry  bones  as  when  he  doth  forget 

The  very  sound  of  his  old  rattling  sides, 

And  sleeps  as  free  as  though  this  Death  were  not !  " 

And  so  he  slept,  and  dreamed  he  caught  —  ah !  sweet  — 

The  Butterfly  within  his  longing  hand  ! 

She  quivered  softly,  and  was  loath  to  go  ; 

When,  lo  !  the  Dragon-fly  did  prick  his  heart, 

And  down  she  fluttered,  leaving  but  the  dust 

From  off  her  wings  to  soothe  the  mortal  pains ! 

He  woke,  then  fell  to  troublous  sleep  again. 

But  hark  !  —  he  starts  from  sleep  !     "  Speak  !  —  who 

is  there  ?  " 
He  stares  with  blurred  eyes  upon  a  light 


142  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

That  breaks  upon  his  dark  and  silent  room. 

He  shakes  the  haziness  away,  and  sees 

A  panel  opening  in  the  wall,  —  so  gray, 

So  strong,  and  so  relentless,  when  he  slept. 

"Tis  Gisla  standing  there,  so  fair  and  pale  ; 

Her  rich  hair  thrust  beneath  a  golden  comb  ; 

Her  beauteous  throat  half  screened  from  midnight  damp 

With  silken  scarf,  that  hung  adown  her  arm 

And  swept  the  floor,  unheeded  in  her  chill 

And  trembling  haste.     She  draws  De  Quercy  by 

The  hand,  and  gazes  in  such  frighted  love 

Upon  him  with  her  lustrous  eyes,  he  goes 

In  deep  amazement  whither  way  she  leads. 

He  leaped  unto  his  feet,  De  Lys.     Ah  !  now 

He  was  awake,  and  forward  rushed  !     "  But  where 

Is  she  ?  —  where  is  Eotrude  ?  "  —  "  Hush,  hush  !    she 

comes ! " 

And  Gisla  spoke  in  whispers.     "  Death  is  near  ! 
Yes,  Death  is  waiting  for  you,  Count  de  Lys  ! 
And  him, —  for  Robert !     O  my  Jesu  !  quick  ! 
He  means  to  see  you  lying  cold  and  still ! 
He  hates  you,  knights  !     You  were  his  father's  friends ! 
You  love  his  daughters !     Sainted  soul !  he  left 
Them  all  alone,  with  none  to  care  for  them, — 
His  orphan  children,  —  save  the  two  they  love. 


THE    WEDDING    PRESENTS.  143 

Save  me  !     O  Robert !  'tis  a  cruel  life  ! 

No :  save  thyself,  I  pray  !     Go,  go,  with  Raoul ! 

Go  hence,  while  I  can  see  thine  eye  is  bright, 

Arid  looks  on  me,  and  knows  me  yet  thy  Gisla ! 

For  he  will  take  thee  if  thou  goest  not ; 

And  they  will  carry  thee  awajr,  so  still, 

With  not  a  word  of  anger  from  thy  lips. 

Thou  wilt  not  raise  thy  hand,  or  mind  the  road 

That  leads  where  all  is  cold  ;  nor  trouble  thee 

About  the  sisters  in  the  castle  left. 

Thou  wilt  be  dead,  De  Quercy  !  hear'st  thou  not  ?  " 

"  Calm  thee,  dear  Gisla!     See!  I  kiss  thy  hand; 
And  I  will  not  be  dead!     Thou'lt  see  me  live 
To  dare  thy  villain  brother;  ay,  just  Heaven  ! " 

"  Cursed  be  the  prince  who  plays  so  foul  with  us, 
His  royal  father's  friends  ! "  said  Count  de  Lys. 

"  We  were  his  favored  pages,"  said  De  Quercy. 

"  Ah,  yes  !  "  spoke  Gisla  softer  through  her  tears  ; 

"  And  many  a  night  you  told  us  how  you  watched 

The  stars  with  him,  till  morning  came  upon 

The  castle  turrets,  where  he  loved  to  be 

With  none  but  you  and  his  high  thoughts,  and  Heaven." 


144  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

"  He  dare  not  do  the  deed  !  for  Charlemagne 
Is  scarcely  gone  from  out  his  seat  of  glory, 
Or  wonted  to  the  grave's  dead  company; 
And  Louis  hath  not  got  a  hold  upon 
The  sceptre  yet " 

"  He  holds  it  tight  enough 
To  punish  coward  subjects !  ha ! "     And  there 
He  stood  —  the  King!  —  upon  the  silent  steps 
That  ran  back  into  darkness,  dragging  forth 
To  light  the  fluttering  and  fair  Rotrude, 
Surprised  and  spent  with  his  unbending  grasp : 
Her  soft  locks  shook  around  the  brother's  arm, 
And  swam  her  deep-blue  eyes  in  tears  of  strange 
Amazement,  as  she  looked  into  his  face. 
Four  solemn  guards  stood  silently  behind, 
Hooded,  and  waiting  for  the  King's  command. 

"  Nay,  sit  you  down,  Rotrude,  my  little  dove ! 
Of  what  are  you  afraid  ?     Is't  not  your  brother  ? 
So  —  nestle  down  upon  this  seat  of  stone : 
We're  not  a  hawk  to  scare  the  pretty  birds. 
Come,  hear  you  what  we  have  to  say :  we  know 
The  way  about  here  in  the  dark,  yet  came 
We  not  through  all  these  winding  stairways  but 
To  frighten  our  dear  sisters.     Look  you  here  ! 


THE    AVEDDING    PRESENTS. 

These  gentlemen  will  lay  aside  their  hoods, 
And  help  us  to  a  little  ceremony." 

"  A  ceremony  ?  "  quoth  the  knights  at  once. 

«  Ay !  surely  as  the  nails  did  pierce  Him  on 

The  cross,  our  reign  we  will  inaugurate  — 

Ha,  I  —  with  a  double  wedding.     Gisla,  you 

Shall  marry  Robert,  Count  de  Quercy.     You, 

Rotrude,—  will  you  not  take  Raoul  de  Lys? 

You  might  have  looked  a  trifle  higher  ;  but 

We  will  not  quarrel  with  a  lady's  choice : 

And  then  these  knights  were  loved  of  him,  our  Sire. 

Here  are  our  wedding  presents  to  your  lords ! " 

And  forth  the  guards  presented  to  their  gaze 

Two  costly  suits  of  armor  finely  wrought. 

They  blushed,  the  knights,  and  thanked  their  gracious 


King, 


And  eyed  the  pieces  from  afar,  abashed, 
And  stammered  broken  words  of  loyalty. 

"  We  have  but  little  faith  in  human  thanks," 
Said  Louis ;  "  and  we  shall  not  look  for  much. 
Go  you,  good  sisters  !  wear  what  pleases  you  ; 
Stay  not  to  look  on  men-at-arms,  while  they 
10 


146  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Are  at  their  toilet,  like  the  peasant  girls 

Who  stare  upon  the  pikemen,  curious 

To  watch  while  they  equip  their  boorish  selves.  — 

Now,  gentlemen  !  will  you  put  on  your  suits  ?  " 

The  four  attendants  brought  the  pieces  near. 

The  knights  surveyed  them  with  delighted  eyes ; 

Yet  cautious  moved,  irresolute,  and  smiled 

With  courteous  grace;  and  lingering,  half  in  doubt, 

Half  in  admiring  joy,  they  stood  awhile, 

As  in  a  maze  of  sweet  uncertainty. 

The  King  grew  restless.     «  Come,  Sir  Knights !   you 

are 

Not  so  impatient  for  your  brides  as  we." 
So,  then,  the  guards  put  on  the  thick  brassards, 
That  fitted  wondrous  well  upon  the  knights ; 
And  helmets,  with  the  visor  closed  to  light. 
Ere  long  they  were  equipped,  and  more,  in  faith, 
For  battle  than  for  wedding  festival ! 

The  four  still  men  then  led  them  to  their  seats, 
And  touched  a  spring  that  shut  with  chilling  sound  : 
The  bridegrooms  with  a  nervous  tremor  start ; 
Then  presently  their  heads  sink  drooping  down 
Upon  their  breasts,  as  though  they  mused  of  love, 
And  festive  halls,  and  merry  wedding  bells. 


THE    WEDDING    PRESENTS.  147 

The  belfry  of  St.  Jacques  rang  out  the  hour ; 
And  in  they  came,  —  the  lovely,  blushing  brides ! 
The  King  turned  round,  and  looked  upon  the  knights, 
And  smiled,  and  pointed  to  them,  sitting  on 
Their  oaken  chairs ;  and  so  went  gently  out. 

And  foremost  was  Rotrude:  among  her  curls, 
So  fair  and  light,  a  cord  of  blue  and  gold 
Lay  hid,  and  wound  above  her  starry  eyes ; 
While  on  the  cold  and  dusty  floor  she  trailed 
The  foldings  of  her  silken  azure  gown. 
And  Gisla  lingered  slow  behind,  with  robe 
Of  richest  crimson,  unadorned ;  and  but 
A  gem,  which  "Robert  gave  her,  in  her  hair. 
The  lovers  sprang  not  up  to  meet  the  brides ; 
But  there  they  sat,  and  spoke  they  not  a  word. 

"  Ah,  Raoul !  wouldst  thou  make  me  think  thou  art 
Not  glad  ?     Thou  canst  not  cheat  thy  Rotrude  so  ! 
Through  all  thy  heavy  armor,  I  can  tell 
How  thou  art  smiling  underneath.  —  The  saints  ! 
How  cold  and  stiff  it  is !     Thou  canst  not  move : 
Thou  look'st  as  if  thou  wert  arrayed  for  fight, 
And  not  to  kiss  Rotrude.  —  Come,  speak  !  or  I 
Shall  weep  !  —  Thou  didst  not  use  io  tease  me  so  ! 


148  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

See  !  I  am  crying  now  like  foolish  girl  : 

Thou  canst  not  feel  the  tears  through  all  this  steel." 

Then  Gisla  came  anear  with  wondering  eyes : 

«  God  !  —  Robert !  Robert !     He  is  dead,  —  is  dead ! 

O  Jesu  !  —  Tear  it  off!     He  cannot  breathe." 

And  Gisla  threw  her  arms,  in  frenzied  strength, 
About  his  metal  form,  and  wrenched  the  springs, 
And  cold  and  pale  and  all  unconscious  fell 
Within  her  noble  lover's  warm,  dead  arms ! 

Ay !  they  were  all  equipped  for  hardest  fight ! 
Alone,  beneath  the  armor's  night,  that  shut 
So  thick  around,  they  fought  for  blessed  air, 
One  moment,  in  a  desperate  agony, 
And  yielded  to  the  awful  conqueror,  Death  ! , 


NOTE.  —  The  author  is  indebted  for  the  facts  of  this  poem  to 
Dr.  Doran's  "  Knights  and  their  Days." 

The  two  suits  of  armor  were  sent  from  Eavenna  to  Charlemagne. 
They  were  so  constructed,  that  all  their  openings  closed  at  once  by 
a  spring. 


TIME,    THE    HEALER. 


149 


TIME,     THE     HEALER. 


BLESSED  be  Time,  that  waiteth  never,  never; 

But  stealeth,  slow  and  sure,  upon  its  way ! 

Yes,  God  be  thanked  that  Now  is  not  Forever ;  — 

That  man  can  look  up  from  his  grief,  and  say, 

"  It  was  ;  "  when,  though  his  wounds  be  stiff  and  sore, 

They  do  not  stare  upon  him,  as  before, 

With  open,  mocking  eyes  !     For  thou,  great  Past ! 

Dost  take  our  pains  unto  thy  bosom  vast. 

They  come  apace  with  rude  and  blasting  breath : 
As  the  fell  plague,  that  brings  the  thrill  of  death, 
Yet  creepeth  onward  from  the  house,  while  men 
Pick  up  their  dead,  and  dare  to  speak  again ; 
So  they  to  thy  deep  presence  pass,  and  then 
We  scan  them  with  a  close  and  steadfast  glance, 
E'en  though,  before,  one  look  on  them  askance 
Was  terrible,  as  on  they  did  advance  ! 


150  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Ah,  Past !  how  still,  serene,  thou  art  always  ! 
We,  too,  do  grow  serener  as  we  gaze, 
And  stand  in  statue-like  repose  the  while, 
Even  as  the  Virgin  Mother  in  her  shrine, 
With  hands  calm  folded  on  her  breast  benign ; 
And  dream  of  all  the  sacredness  divine 
Around  the  martyr-heart,  till  we  do  smile 
Upon  our  earthly  pains,  and  learn  to  know 
Joy  is  not  best  of  all  things  here  below ! 


THE    ALPS.  151 


THE     ALPS. 


THROUGHOUT  the  early  morn  we  crept  along 

Amid  the  genial  valleys  decked  with  vines, 

And  hamlets  smiling  in  their  peacefulness, 

And  hoary  towers  o'erlooking  them  above, 

With  chapel  readjr,  as  of  old,  for  prayer. 

The  song  of  Troubadour  at  break  of  day 

Chimed  soft  and  plaintive  through  our  morning  dreams ; 

And  Baron's  blue-eyed  daughters,  gleaming  out, 

Around  gray  turrets  waved  their  golden  hair ; 

While  from  dear  kindly  monks  in  cloister-walls 

Came  soft  and  lulling  Aves,  intermixt 

With  distant  ring  and  clash  of  knightly  sword. 

We  seemed  verily  to  steal  among 

The  mellow  pages  of  old,  fond  Romance. 

But  hush!  rouse  up,  my  heart!     What  sa\v  we  then, 
As  forth  we  came  from  out  the  valley's  depth  ? 
The  Alps  !  the  Alps  !     Avaunt,  old  Past !  and  take 


152  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

Thy  mouldy  relics  all  along  with  thee, 

And  pray  and  mutter  o'er  them  as  thou  wilt ! 

Yes,  there  they  stood  together,  side  by  side, 

Their  foreheads  bared  to  heaven  as  worshippers, 

Perennial  freshness  resting  on  their  brows  ; 

The  glow  of  youth,  the  strength  of  manhood,  there ; 

And  there  the  deep  serenity  of  age. 

My  heart  rang  out  in  high  festivity : 

I  heard  them  sing  a  never-ending  song,  — 

"  There  is  no  time  with  God !     His  beauty  was 

And  is,  and  shall  be  ever,  evermore ! " 


DANTE    AND    BEATRICE.  153 


SCHEFFER'S   PICTURE  OF   DANTE  AND 
BEATRICE. 


UPON  the  summit  of  celestial  joy, 

Which  doth  begin  and  end  in  peace,  she  stands, 

And  reaches  out  to  him  her  blessed  hands. 

The  peace  that  groweth  with  the  pains  of  earth 
Was  hers ;  and  now  the  joy  of  purer  rest, 
The  peace  that  sinketh  deeper  in  the  breast. 

She  whelmeth  all  his  soul  in  tenderest  awe 

And  most  unutterable  reverence  : 

lie  gazeth  breathless,  lest  she  float  from  thence. 

"  O  woman  !  freshening  presence  !  far  more  sweet 

Than  the  celestial  gales  to  pilgrim  given 

The  flutter  of  thy  garments  throughout  heaven." 

She  raiseth  up  her  finger  in  rebuke : 

"  Thou  must  not  look  for  me,  but  higher  light ; 

Else  will  the  Father  veil  me  from  thy  sight." 


154  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 

And,  oh !  she  looks  so  far,  so  far  beyond, 
An  everlasting  vision  floating  lies 
Mirrored  within  the  azure  of  her  eyes. 

He  bows  his  head  upon  his  ardent  heart ; 
He  calms  it  with  a  spirit  struggling  yet, 
And  stands  subdued  before  the  Infinite. 

She  watches  him  with  parted  lips,  and  smiles : 
He  looks ;  he  catches  quick  the  gleams  that  play 
Around  her  mouth ;  and,  lo !  she  soars  away. 

"  O  Love  supreme !  "  he  cries,  "  thou'rt  all  in  all 
Yet  thou  hast  deigned  to  robe  thyself  for  me 
Within  her  angel-like  humanity. 

Then  bid  this  most  tumultuous  spirit  lean 

Upon  her  calmness  :  so  together  we 

May  go  up  to  the  heavenly  mount  and  Thee." 


CHARLOTTE    BRONTE.  155 


CHARLOTTE    BRONTE. 


I  SEEM  to  stand  upon  Life's  very  verge ; 

I've  traversed  all  the  experience  which  it  brings  r 

I  am  not  old ;  but  I  have  seen  all  things. 

Strange  waves  have  swept  my  youth  with  whelmin< 

surge, 

And  washed  it  bare  of  all  illusions  sweet,  — 
Even  as  the  ocean-rock  stands  bleak  and  cold  ; 
Her  young  green  moss,  and  pebbles  all  of  gold, 
And  rainbow-shells,  swept  off  by  tides  that  beat. 

I  will  not  be  like  that  gray  rock  at  sea ! 

My  rainbow-hopes  I'll  bring  from  out  the  deep, 

And  lay  them  where  Life's  floods  can  never  sweep : 

Though  now  my  soul,  and  not  my  hair,  is  gray, 

When  fades  my  hair,  again  my  soul  shall  be 

All  young  and  blooming  for  Eternal  Day  ! 


156  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


TO 


THE  book  is  laid  within  thy  guiding  hand ; 
Do  with  it  what  thou  wilt,  so  I  may  see 
Thy  smile  approving,  with  a  sweet  command 
To  high  and  nobler  labors  urging  me. 

Along  the  golden  heights  of  Poesy, 
Or  tender  vales  of  duty  and  of  joy,  — 
In  both  my  ways,  it  is  thy  earnest  eye 
That  points  me  upward  in  my  loved  employ : 
Dear  Faith  and  Poesy !  may  they  abide 
With  us  until  the  night  in  day  is  glorified ! 


THE     END. 


ERRATA. 

Page  59,  line  2,  for  "  some  pale  "  read  "  the  great. 
Page  77.  line  1G,  for  "  line''  read  "  lure." 


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